CHAPTERS   ON   ANIMALS. 


CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 


BY 

PHILIP  GILBERT   HAMERTON, 

ABOUT    ART,"    "  THE    UNKNOWN    RIVKR,"     ETC. 


STinentg  JEIlustrattons 

BY 

J.  VEYRASSAT  AND   KARL  BODMER. 


BOSTON: 

ROBERTS      BROTHERS. 
1874. 


CAMBRIDGE: 
PRESSWORK  BY  JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON. 


PREFACE. 


HAVING  been  in  the  habit  of  loving  and  observing  animals, 
as  people  do  who  live  much  in  the  country,  I  thought  that 
possibly  some  of  my  observations,  however  trifling  in  them- 
selves, might  interest  others  whose  tastes  are  similar  to  my 
own.  In  this  spirit  I  wrote  these  chapters,  describing  what 
I  had  seen  rather  than  what  other  writers  had  recorded.  The 
book  has  therefore  no  pretension  to  system  or  completeness, 
but  consists  merely  of  desultory  chapters,  as  its  title  indi- 
cates. 

The  illustrations,  by  two  deservedly  celebrated  animal 
painters,  Karl  Bodmer  and  Veyrassat,  will  be  found,  it  is 
believed,  to  add  considerably  to  the  value  and  interest  of  the 

volume. 

P.  G.  H. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER.  PAGE- 

L  THE  LIFE  OF  THE  BRUTE            ...  I 

II.   DOGS 17 

III.  DOGS  (continued) 32 

IV.  CATS 43 

IV*.   HORSES .61 

V.  HORSES  (contimied) 77 

VI.   THE  BOVINES 9^ 

VII.   ASSES 113 

VIII.   PIGS 127 

IX.   WILD   BOARS 142 

X.  WOLVES 156 

XL  KIDS 174 

XII.  OTHER  ANIMALS 1 88 

XIII.  BIRDS 197 

XIV.  BIRDS  (continued) 207 

XV.   ANIMALS  IN  ART 221 

XVI.   CANINE  GUESTS  .          .          .          .          .236 


CHAPTERS   ON   ANIMALS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE   LIFE   OF  THE   BRUTE. 

READERS  of  Dean  Stanley's  Life  of  Dr.  Arnold  will 
probably  remember  a  passage,  brief  but  highly  interest- 
ing, in  which  reference  is  made  to  his  feelings  about  the 
brute  creation ; — '  In  works  of  art  he  took  but  little 
interest,  and  any  extended  researches  in  physical  science 
were  precluded  by  want  of  time,  whilst  from  natural  his- 
tory he  had  an  instinctive  but  characteristic  shrinking. 
"  The  whole  subject,"  he  said,  "  of  the  brute  creation  is 
to  me  one  of  such  painful  mystery,  that  I  dare  not 
approach  it." ' 

Mystery  indeed  there  is  everywhere,  and  it  is  often 
painful  ;  but  surely  in  shrinking  from  the  contemplation 
of  nature  the  loss  is  greater  than  the  gain.  That  all 
animals  are  condemned  at  one  period  or  another  of  their 
existence  to  undergo  suffering,  often  very  severe  sufferT 

B 


CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 


ing,  and  that  in  their  utmost  anguish  they  have  no  con- 
solation from  religious  or  philosophical  ideas,  that  they 
have  no  hope  beyond  the  limits  of  a  day,  and  that 
their  existence  is  most  probably  limited  to  the  brief 
space  between  birth  and  death, — this  is  the  dark  side 
of  their  being,  which  we  need  not  attempt  to  hide.  But, 
on  the  other  hand,  the  life  of  the  brute  has  commonly 
one  immense  compensation  in  its  favour,  the  perfection 
of  the  individual  existence  is  so  rarely  sacrificed  to  the 
prosperity  of  the  race.  It  is  not  necessary  in  order 
that  one  hippopotamus  should  cut  his  food  conveniently 
that  another  hippopotamus  should  lead  an  unhealthy 
existence  like  a  Sheffield  grinder  ;  nor  does  the  comfort 
of  any  bird's  nest  require  that  another  bird  should 
slowly  poison  itself  in  preparing  acetates  of  copper, 
sulphurets  of  mercury,  or  oxides  of  lead.  The  pride  and 
beauty  of  a  brute  are  never  based  upon  the  enduring 
misery  of  another  brute.  The  wild  drake's  plumage, 
splendid  as  it  is,  suggests  no  painful  thought  of  con- 
sumptive weavers,  of  ill-paid  lace-makers,  of  harassed, 
over- worked  milliners  ;  and  the  most  sensitive  of  us  may 
enjoy  the  sight  of  it  without  painful  thoughts,  for  it 
is  God's  free  gift,  causing  no  heart-burning  of  envy,  no 
care  nor  anxiety  of  any  kind.  There  is  much  slaughter 
in  the  world  of  brutes,  but  there  is  little  slavery,  and  the 
killing  is  done  with  a  merciful  rapidity,  ending  life  whilst 
its  pulses  still  beat  in  their  energy,  and  preventing  in- 
firmity and  age.  The  brute  creation  has  its  diseases,  but 
on  the  whole  it  is  astonishingly  healthy.  It  is  full  of  an 


THE  LIFE  OF  THE  BRUTE. 


amazing  vitality.*  The  more  we  study  animals  the  more 
evident  is  it  that  they  live  for  the  most  part  in  the 
heaven  of  exuberant  health.  That  gladness  which  we 
seek,  how  often  vainly,  in  all  artificial  stimulants, — in 
wine,  tea,  gin,  tobacco,  opium,  and  the  rest, — the  brute 
finds  in  the  free  coursing  of  his  own  uncontaminated 
blood.  Our  nervous  miseries,  our  brain-exhaustion,  are 
unknown  to  him.  Has  not  one  of  the  sweetest  of  our 
poets,  who  knew  those  miseries  of  the  intellectual,  poured 
forth  in  immortal  verse  his  passionate  longing  for  the 
'  clear  keen  joyance'  of  a  skylark  ?  Which  of  us  has  not 
envied  the  glee  of  his  own  dog  ?  Human  happiness  may 
be  deeper,  but  it  is  never,  after  earliest  infancy,  so  free 
from  all  shadow  of  sadness  or  regret. 

It  is  probable  that  Dr.  Arnold's  disinclination  for  the 
study  of  animal  life,  and  his  painful  feelings  regarding  it, 
had  their  origin  in  a  peculiarity  of  his  which  made  him 
such  an  excellent  schoolmaster — the  intense  pleasure  with 
which  he  contemplated  moral  and  intellectual  advance,  a 
pleasure  which  had  for  its  shadow  a  feeling  of  intense 
disgust  for  incorrigibles.  To  a  man  with  these  feelings 
always  highly-wrought,  and  even  rather  overexcited  by 
the  nature  of  his  work,  a  man  always  anxious  to  make 
good  Christians  and  cultivated  gentlemen,  the  brute  world 
must  have  seemed  a  very  discouraging  kind  of  material. 

•  This  in  conseqnence  of  the  law,  apparently  pitiless,  yet  when  seen  in 
its  large  results  most  merciful,  that  the  weak  and  diseased  so  rapidly  die 
off,  that  the  strong  and  healthy  remain  and  propagate,  whilst  the  organi- 
zations ill  adapted  for  vigourous  life  perish  and  disappear. 


CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 


What  changes  nature  may  operate  in  millions  of  years, 
what  marvellous  developments  may  lead  up  gradually  to 
higher  orders  of  being,  we  need  not  attempt  to  estimate ; 
it  is  enough  for  us,  that  from  the  dawn  of  history  the 
animals  most  familiarly  known  to  us  seem  to  have  done 
the  same  things,  and  done  them  in  the  same  way,  as  their 
successors  in  our  own  fields  and  on  our  own  hearth-rugs. 
We  have  evidence  that  the  donkeys  of  antiquity  were 
obstinate  and  self-willed,  and  the  donkeys  of  the  nine- 
teenth century  are  so  still.  But  in  this  persistence  of 
characteristics  there  is  nothing,  I  think,  to  sadden  us. 
The  brute  does  not,  it  is  true,  aspire  after  the  ideal, 
and  his  views,  it  must  be  confessed,  are  usually  limited  to 
the  fullest  and  most  immediate  gratification  of  his  appe- 
tites, but  he  has  so  many  negative  advantages  that  we 
may  think  and  speak  of  him  with  cheerfulness.  If  he  has 
not  the  support  and  consolations  of  religion  it  is  because 
he  does  not  require  them,  and  he  escapes  the  evils  of 
theological  rancour  and  persecution  which  have  caused  so 
much  misery  to  mankind.  He  escapes,  too,  the  mean- 
ness of  hypocrisy,  which  is  one  of  the  least  pleasing  of  the 
peculiarly  human  vices.  So  with  regard  to  the  politics  of 
brutes — they  are  royalists,  or  republicans,  or  socialists,  or 
they  push  to  an  extreme  impossible  for  mankind  the 
principles  of  independent  individualism  ;  but  whatever 
they  are  they  know  their  own  mind,  and  incur  neither  the 
evils  of  anarchy  nor  the  perils  of  transition.  How  much 
weariness  has  there  been  in  the  human  race  during  the 
last  fifty  years,  because  the  human  race  cannot  stop  poli- 


THE  LIFE  OF  THE  BRUTE. 


tically  where  it  was,  and,  finding  no  rest,  is  pushed  to  a 
strange  future  that  the  wisest  look  forward  to  gravely,  as 
certainly  very  dark  and  probably  very  dangerous  !  Mean- 
while have  the  bees  suffered  any  political  uneasiness, 
have  they  doubted  the  use  of  royalty  or  begrudged  the 
cost  of  their  Queen  ?  Have  those  industrious  republic- 
ans, the  ants,  gone  about  uneasily  seeking  after  a  sov- 
ereign ?  Has  the  eagle  grown  weary  of  his  isolation  and 
sought  strength  in  the  practice  of  socialism  ?  Has  the 
dog  become  too  enlightened  to  endure  any  longer  his 
position  as  man's  humble  friend,  and  contemplated  a 
canine  union  for  mutual  protection  against  masters  ?  No, 
the  great  principles  of  these  existences  are  superior  to 
change,  and  that  which  man  is  perpetually  seeking,  a 
political  order  in  perfect  harmony  with  his  condition,  the 
brute  has  inherited  with  his  instincts. 

The  study  of  animals  inclines  men  to  a  steady  cheer- 
fulness. All  naturalists  are  cheerful  men,  unless  there  is 
something  peculiarly  sad  or  painful  in  the  individual  lot ; 
and  even  then  the  study  of  natural  history  has  in  many 
instances  been  known  to  supply  an  interest  which  enabled 
the  sufferer  to  bear  his  affliction  more  easily.  The  con- 
templation of  animal  life  may  act  at  once  as  a  stimulant 
and  an  anodyne.  The  abounding  vitality  of  animals 
communicates  a  strong  stimulus  to  those  energies  which 
we  have  in  common  with  them,  whilst  on  the  other  hand 
their  absolute  incapacity  for  sharing  our  higher  intellectual 
vitality  has  a  tendency  to  make  us  happily  forget  it  in 
their  presence.  Your  dog  will  run  and  jump  with  you  as 


CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 


much  as  you  like,  but  it  is  of  no  use  to  talk  to  him  about 
your  business  anxieties  or  your  literary  ambition.  I 
believe  that  most  of  the  attractiveness  of  what  is  called 
'  sport,'  is  to  be  found  in  the  happiness  of  association  with 
the  lower  animals.  Take  away  the  animals  from  a  hunt ; 
suppose  that  there  were  neither  horses  nor  dogs,  nor  stag, 
fox,  wild  boar,  or  any  other  animal  whatever,  but  that 
the  men  rode  on  velocipedes  after  a  machine  going  by 
electricity — who  does  not  at  once  feel  that  the  deep  charm 
of  the  chase  would  be  gone  ?  Few  will  deny  that  falconry, 
though  far  less  destructive  than  shooting,  was  a  more 
perfect  sport ;  for  the  falconer  associated  himself  with  the 
bird  of  prey  that  he  had  trained  with  hood  and  jesses  and 
lure,  and  Watched  its  aerial  evolutions.  The  pleasure  of 
falconry  was  to  be  a  spectator  at  one's  own  hours  of  a 
sight  which  every  naturalist  has  occasionally  witnessed 
in  his  rambles — the  bird  of  prey  in  the  exercise  of  his 
terrible  function.  The  noble  of  the  middle  ages,  who  was 
a  bird  of  prey  himself  by  instinct  and  tradition,  felt  the 
deepest  sympathy  with  the  hawk,  and  carried  him  every- 
where on  his  wrist  as  poor  women  carry  their  babies  ;  but 
the  modern  student  of  nature  may  sympathise  with  the 
hawk  also,  notwithstanding  our  modern  tenderness.  We 
may  always  sympathise  with  an  animal,  because  the 
animal  is  sure  to  do  his  appointed  work  ;  the  business  of 
the  falcon  being  to  destroy  birds  for  his  own  sustenance, 
he  does  it  without  any  infirmity  of  doubt.  He  hurls  him- 
self like  a  barbed  javelin,  and  the  sharp  talon  delivers  its 
deadly  stroke.  Since  the  work,  in  Nature's  order,  had  to 


THE  LIFE  OF  THE  BRUTE. 


be  done,  there  is  a  satisfaction  in  seeing  it  done  with  that 
swiftness  and  decision,  that  perfect  vigour  and  ability.  So 
the  old  knights  often  took  the  falcon  for  a  crest,  and  he 
sat  in  effigy  on  their  helmets,  tossed  above  the  dust  of  the 
battle-field. 

But  the  knight's  sympathy  or  the  sportsman's  sympa- 
thy for  animals  is  more  narrow,  though  not  more  intense 
by  reason  of  its  narrowness,  than  the  sympathy  of  the 
naturalist  or  artist.  Since  falconry  is  dead  the  falcon 
would  be  doomed  to  extinction  if  gamekeepers  had  their 
way ;  and  the  sportsman  thinks  that  if  an  animal  is  not 
either  good  to  hunt  or  be  hunted,  does  not  play  the  part 
either  of  hound  or  hare,  there  can  be  no  sufficient  reason 
against  its  total  extermination.  So  the  agriculturist  has 
his  way  of  considering  animals,  with  his  two  categories — 
the  beasts  that  can  work  for  him  and  the  beasts  that  can 
be  sold  to  the  butcher.  But  there  is  another  way  besides 
these,  that  of  the  observer  who  studies  the  aninal  from 
some  kind  of  interest  in  nature  without  reference  to  any- 
thing that  it  can  do  fi  /  him  or  produce  for  him.  The 
selfish  pre-occupation  always  hinders  us  from  observing 
in  the  best  and  largest  sense.  Some  excellent  observers 
have  been  sportsmen  and  agriculturists ;  this  partly  from 
accident,  because  they  had  land  in  the  country,  and  partly 
from  hereditary  tendencies  derived  from  sporting  or  agri- 
cultural ancestors:  but  it  is  possible  to  kill  animals  e'veryday, 
and  make  animals  work  all  day  long,  and  sell  animals  at 
every  fair  in  the  neighbourhood,  without  knowing  very  much 
more  about  their  lives  and  characters  than  they  know  of 


CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 


yours  and  mine.  I  have  seen  men  who  had  not  the  least 
insight  into  the  characters  of  their  own  horses  or  their 
own  dogs.  It  grates  very  unpleasantly  on  the  feelings  of 
any  true  lover  of  animals  to  see  them  treated  as  beings 
without  any  individuality  of  mental  constitution.  There 
are  people  to  whom  a  horse  is  a  horse,  just  as  a  penny 
postage-stamp  is  a  penny  postage-stamp  ;  that  is,  a  thing 
which  will  convey  a  certain  weight  for  a  certain  regulated 
distance.  But  any  one  who  knows  animals  knows  that  a 
horse  has  as  much  individuality  as  a  man.  And  the  more 
we  know,  even  of  inferior  animals,  the  more  distinct  does 
their  individuality  become  for  us.  It  is  only  our  ignorance 
and  our  indifference  which  confound  them.  The  two  bay 
horses  in  your  carriage  look  exactly  alike  to  the  people 
in  the  street,  but  the  coachman  and  groom  could  establish 
contrasts  and  comparisons  after  the  manner  of  Plutarch. 
With  the  varieties  of  canine  character  we  are  all  of  us 
tolerably  familiar,  because  our  dogs  are  more  with  us, 
happily  for  us  and  for  them.  Yet  how  difficult  it  is  to 
arrive  at  any  true  conception  of  the  mind  of  a  lower  ani- 
mal !  The  moment  we  begin  to  reason  about  it  a  thick 
cloud  rises  and  comes  between.  We  speak  of  them  habi- 
tually as  if  they  had  human  feelings :  a  dog  is  spoken  of 
very  much  as  if  he  were  a  child,  yet  he  is  not  a  child ; 
and  we  give  to  horses  many  capacities  and  attributes 
which  horses  never  possess.  There  is  an  insuperable 
difficulty  in  imagining  the  mind  of  an  animal ;  we  lend 
him  words,  which  he  never  uses,  to  express  thoughts 
which  could  not  occur  to  him.  We  are  constantly  misled 


7HE  LIFE  OF  THE  BRUTE. 


by  the  evident  clearness  of  the  minds  of  animals,  by  the 
acuteness  of  their  perceptions  in  certain  directions,  and 
we  infer  that  this  clearness  and  acuteness  may  be  applied 
where  they  are  of  no  use.  The  truth  is,  that  animals  are 
both  more  intelligent  and  less  intelligent  than  we  fancy. 
A  dog,  and  even  a  horse,  notices  a  good  deal  that  we 
little  suspect  him  of  noticing,  but  at  the  same  time  a  great 
deal  which  we  think  he  sees  is  perfectly  invisible  to  him. 
The  following  account  of  the  behaviour  of  a  cow  gives  a 
glimpse  of  the  real  nature  of  the  animal : — 

'  These  long-tailed  cows,'  say  Messrs.  Hue  and  Gabet, 
'  are  so  restive  and  difficult  to  milk,  that,  to  keep  them 
at  all  quiet,  the  herdsman  has  to  give  them  a  calf  to  lick 
meanwhile.  But  for  this  device,  not  a  single  drop  of 
milk  could  be  obtained  from  them.  One  day  a  Lama 
herdsman,  who  lived  in  the  same  house  with  ourselves, 
rame,  with  a  long  dismal  face,  to  announce  that  his  cow 
had  calved  during  the  night,  and  that,  unfortunately,  the 
calf  was  dying.  It  died  in  the  course  of  the  day.  The 
Lama  forthwith  skinned  the  poor  beast,  and  stuffed  it  with 
hay.  This  proceeding  surprised  us  at  first,  for  the  Lama 
had  by  no  means  the  air  of  a  man  likely  to  give  himself 
the  luxury  of  a  cabinet  of  natural  history.  When  the 
operation  was  completed  we  found  that  the  hay-calf  had 
neither  feet  nor  head ;  whereupon  it  occurred  to  us  that, 
after  all,  it  was  perhaps  a  pillow  that  the  Lama  contem- 
plated. We  were  in  error;  but  the  error  was  not  dissi- 
pated till  the  next  morning,  when  our  herdsman  went  to 
milk  his  cow.  Seeing  him  issue  forth,  the  pail  in  one  hand 


io  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 

and  the  hay-calf  under  the  other  arm,  the  fancy  occurred 
to  us  to  follow  him.  His  first  proceeding  was  to  put  the 
hay-calf  down  before  the  cow.  He  then  turned  to  milk 
the  cow  herself.  The  mamma  at  first  opened  enormous 
eyes  at  her  beloved  infant ;  by  degrees  she  stooped  her 
head  towards  it,  then  smelt  at  it,  sneezed  three  or  four 
times,  and  at  last  proceeded  to  lick  it  with  the  most 
delightful  tenderness.  This  spectacle  grated  against  our 
sensibilities ;  it  seemed  to  us  that  he  who  first  invented 
this  parody  upon  one  of  the  most  touching  incidents  in 
nature  must  have  been  a  man  without  a  heart.  A  somev- 
\vhat  burlesque  circumstance  occurred  one  day  to  modify 
the  indignation  with  which  this  treachery  inspired  us.  By 
dint  of  caressing  and  licking  her  little  calf,  the  tender 
parent  one  fine  morning  unripped  it ;  the  hay  issued  from 
within,  and  the  cow,  manifesting  not  the  slightest  surprise 
nor  agitation,  proceeded  tranquilly  to  devour  the  unex- 
pected provender.' 

The  last  touch  entirely  paints  the  brute.  She  has 
recognised  her  offspring  by  the  smell  chiefly,  and  nevar 
having  heard  of  anatomy  is  not  surprised  when  the 
internal  organs  are  found  to  consist  simply  of  hay.  And 
why  not  eat  the  hay  ?  The  absence  of  surprise  at  the 
discovery,  the  immediateness  of  the  decision  to  eat  the 
hay,  are  perfectly  natural  in  a  cow,  and  if  they  surprise 
us  it  is  only  because  we  do  not  fully  realise  the  state  of 
the  bovine  mind.  If  we  reflect,  however,  we  must  per- 
ceive that  a  cow  can  be  aware  of  no  reason  why  calves 
should  not  be  constructed  internally  of  hay.  On  the  other 


THE  LIFE  OF  THE  BRUTE. 


hand,  the  bovine  mind  cannot  be  wanting  in  its  own  kind 
of  intelligence,  for  oxen  know  their  masters,  and  when  in 
harness  are  remarkable  for  a  very  accurate  and  delicate 
kind  of  obedience  ;  indeed  the  horse  is  light-headed  and 
careless  in  comparison  with  them. 

Animals,  like  the  great  majority  of  the  human  race, 
observe  only  what  concerns  them  and  see  everything 
simply  in  the  relation  which  it  bears  to  themselves.  In 
Gustave  Dore's  '  Juif  Errant'  a  donkey  is  tasting  a  man's 
beard,  under  the  impression  that  it  may  possibly  be  a  sort 
of  hay.  Dore  most  probably  had  witnessed  the  incident ; 
I  have  witnessed  it  several  times.  Why  should  a  man's 
beard  not  consist  of  hay  ?  There  are  physiological 
reasons,  but  we  cannot  expect  a  donkey  to  be  aware  of 
them.  We  continually  forget  that  brutes  have  not  the 
advantage  of  obtaining  accurate  ideas  by  spoken  or 
written  language.  We  do  not  realise  the  immensity  of 
their  ignorance.  That  ignorance,  in  combination  with 
perfect  cerebral  clearness  (ignorance  and  mental  clearness 
are  quite  compatible),  and  with  inconceivable  strong 
instincts,  produces  a  creature  whose  mental  states  we  can 
never  accurately  understand.  None  of  us  can  imagine  the 
feelings  of  a  tiger  when  his  jaws  are  bathed  in  blood  and 
he  tears  the  quivering  flesh.  The  passion  of  the  great 
flesh-eater  is  as  completely  unknown  to  civilised  men,  as 
the  passion  of  the  poet  is  to  the  tiger  in  the  jungle.  It 
is  far  more  than  merely  a  good  appetite,  it  is  an  intense 
emotion.  A  quite  faint  and  pale  shadow  of  it  still  remains 
in  men  with  an  ardent  enthusiasm  for  the  chase,  who  feel 


12  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 

a  joy  in  slaughter,  but  this  to  the  tiger's  passion  is  as 
water  to  whisky.  This  impossibility  of  knowing  the  real 
sensations  of  animals — and  the  sensations  are  the  life — 
stands  like  an  inaccessible  and  immovable  rock  right  in 
the  pathway  of  our  studies.  The  effort  of  dramatic  power 
necessary  to  imagine  the  life  of  another  person  is  very 
considerable,  and  few  minds  are  capable  of  it,  but  it  is 
much  easier  to  imagine  the  sensations  of  a  farmer  than 
those  of  his  horse.  The  main  difficulty  in  conceiving  the 
mental  states  of  animals  is,  that  the  moment  we  think  of 
them  as  human  we  are  lost.  Neither  are  they  machines 
pushed  by  irresistible  instincts.  A  human  being  as 
ignorant  as  a  house  would  be  an  idiot,  and  act  with  an 
idiot's  lack  of  sense  and  incapacity  for  sequence.  But  the 
horse  is  not  an  idiot,  he  has  a  mind  at  once  quite  clear 
and  sane,  and  is  very  observant  in  his  own  way.  Most 
domestic  animals  are  as  keenly  alive  to  their  own  inter- 
ests as  a  man  of  business.  They  can  make  bargains,  and 
stick  to  them,  and  make  you  stick  to  them  also.  I  have 
a  little  mare  who  used  to  require  six  men  to  catch  her  in 
the  pasture,  but  I  carried  corn  to  her  for  a  long  time 
without  trying  to  take  her,  leaving  the  corn  on  the  ground. 
Next,  I  induced  her  to  eat  the  corn  whilst  I  held  it,  still 
leaving  her  free.  Finally  I  persuaded  her  to  follow  me, 
and  now  she  will  come  trotting  half-a-mile  at  my  whistle, 
leaping  ditches,  fording  brooks,  in  the  darkness  and  rain, 
or  in  impenetrable  fog.  She  follows  me  like  a  dog  to  the 
stable,  and  I  administer  the  corn  there.  But  it  is  a  bar- 
gain ;  she  knowingly  sells  her  liberty  for  the  corn.  The 


THE  LIFE  OF  THE  BRUTE.  13 

experiment  of  reducing  the  reward  having  been  tried  to 
test  her  behaviour,  she  ceased  to  obey  the  whistle  and 
resumed  her  former  habits  ;  but  the  full  and  due  quantity 
having  been  restored  she  yielded  her  liberty  again  with- 
out resistance,  and  since  then  she  is  not  to  be  cheated. 
On  the  other  hand,  she  is  very  ignorant  of  much  that  a 
man  of  equal  shrewdness  would  easily  have  picked  up  by 
the  use  of  language.  In  our  estimates  of  animal  character 
we  always  commit  one  of  two  mistakes, — either  we  con- 
clude that  the  beasts  have  great  knowledge  because  they 
seem  so  clever,  or  else  we  fancy  that  they  must  be  stupid 
because  we  have  ascertained  that  they  are  ignorant ;  so 
that,  on  the  one  hand,  we  constantly  see  animals  severely 
punished  for  not  having  known  what  they  could  only 
have  learned  through  human  language,  and,  on  the  other 
hand,  we  find  men  very  frequently  underrating  the  won- 
derful natural  intelligence  of  the  brute  creation,  and 
treating  animals  without  the  least  consideration  for  their 
feelings,  which  are  often  highly  sensitive. 

Another  obstacle  to  a  right  understanding  of  the  brute 
nature  is  the  common  habit  of  sentimentalism,  which 
attributes  to  some  favourite  races  of  animals  some  fine 
qualities,  which,  if  they  are  to  be  discovered  at  all,  can 
only  be  detected  in  most  rare  instances,  and,  even  then, 
are  striking  rather  from  their  rarity  than  their  strength. 
A  good  example  of  what  I  mean  is  the  popular  belief 
concerning  the  affectionateness  of  horses.  The  plain 
truth  is,  that  the  horse  is  not  an  affectionate  animal  but 
that  man  wishes  he  were  so,  and  supplies  him  with  this 


14  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 

charming  quality  from  the  resources  of  his  own  imagi- 
nation. The  horse  may  be  made  familiar;  you  may 
cultivate  his  intimate  acquaintance,  as  acquaintance 
merely,  but  his  affections  are  not  for  man,  they  are  for 
his  brute  companions.* 

It  seems  to  me,  that  notwithstanding  the  insuperable 
difficulties  which  hinder  us  from  a  perfect  comprehension 
of  the  brute  nature  in  any  of  its  forms,  we  may  still,  by 
careful  observation  and  reflection,  aided  by  a  kindly 
sympathy  and  indulgence,  arrive  at  notions  about  animal 
life  not  altogether  without  interest  Let  us  always  try 
to  bear  in  mind  those  great  necessities  which  are  irre- 
sistibly felt  by  animals  as  a  consequence  of  their  special 
organisation,  and  preserve  ourselves  from  the  error  of 
approving  or  blaming  them  according  to  human  standards. 
When  a  tiger  eats  a  man,  the  act  is  not  more  blameable 
than  the  act  of  a  man  who  opens  and  eats  an  oyster 
We  have  the  most  absurd  prejudices  on  this  subject, 
which  have  taken  root  in  infancy  and  not  been  disturbed 
by  maturer  reflection  afterwards.  Wolves  and  falcons 
seem  cruel  because  their  prey  is  rather  large,  but  the 
little  insect-eating  birds  are  our  pets,  and  cats  are 
morally  esteemed  for  catching  mice.  A  word  may  be 
said  in  passing  about  the  morbid  love  which  many  people 
have  for  animals,  and  foolishly  encourage  as  a  virtue. 
Some  people  love  their  dogs  in  a  manner  not  at  all  con- 

•  I  have  been  told  lately  that  Arab  horses  are  capable  of  strong  affection 
for  their  masters,  which,  If  true,  may  have  been  the  origin  of  the  popular 
belief. 


THE  LIFE  OF  THE  BRUTE.  15 

ducive  to  the  clogs'  true  happiness  and  welfare.  I  knew 
a  lady  and  gentleman  who  loved  their  dog  so  much  that 
he  had  a  chair  at  the  dinner-table,  and  slept  at  night  (he 
was  a  large  retriever)  in  the  same  bed  with  his  master 
and  mistress.  I  had  the  honour  of  sitting  opposite  to 
him  at  dinner,  and  was  much  edified  by  his  well-bred 
manners.  He  ate  soberly  from  a  plate,  like  the  rest  of 
us.  But  it  is  not  a  kindness  to  pamper  animals  of  any 
kind  ;  the  true  way  to  be  kind  to  animals  is  to  order  their 
living  in  every  way  that  they  may  be  cheerful  and 
healthy  through  their  allotted  span  of  life,  and  we  ought 
not  to  hesitate  about  putting  them  to  death  when  in- 
firmities make  existence  a  burden.  So  with  reference  to 
animals  slaughtered  for  our  use,  there  can  be  no  moral 
hesitation  if  only  the  most  merciful  death  is  chosen.  It 
is  wrong  to  bleed  calves  to  dealth  slowly,  as  is  done  in 
England  to  have  the  veal  white ;  it  is  wrong  to  tear  out 
the  eyes  of  rabbits  while  yet  living,  as  is  done  in  some 
parts  of  France  from  a  notion  that  the  meat  is  better  for 
it ;  it  is  wrong  to  give  geese  a  liver  complaint  in  order 
to  make  Strasbourg  pies;  but  a  true  gourmet  will  hesitate 
at  no  cruelty  if  it  procures  him  a  perceptible  increase  in 
the  delicate  delight  of  tasting.  As  to  that  great  horrible 
question  of  vivisection,  which  men  of  science  do  really 
practise  much  more  than  is  commonly  suspected,  the 
discoveries  effected  by  it  have  prevented,  they  say,  much 
suffering,  but  the  doubt  remains  whether  a  merciful  end 
can  justify  means  so  frightfully  merciless.  The  young 
veterinary  surgeons  at  Maisons-Alfort  do  actually  learn 


16  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 

to  operate  by  practising  on  living  horses,  which  are 
saved  from  the  knacker  for  that  purpose ;  and  the  same 
science  which  inflicts  tortures  worse  than  those  of  the 
Inquisition  prolongs  the  misery  of  the  victims  by  the 
most  solicitous  care  in  the  intervals  between  one  opera- 
tion and  another.  Finally,  after  from  twenty  to  sixty 
operations,  the  animals  die  from  sheer  inability  to  endure 
any  more  torture ;  and  still  the  sky  is  bright  over 
Maisons-Alfort,  and  the  houses  are  pretty  and  fanciful, 
and  the  gardens  sweetly  luxuriant,  and  there  are  arbours 
for  pleasant  shade  where  the  well-to-do  messieurs  and 
dames  sit  sipping  their  coffee  and  cognac.  A  pretty 
place  in  the  summer,  but  the  hell  of  horses,  punished  for 
no  sin ! 


CHAPTER  II. 

DOGS. 

THERE  is  a  little  skull  amongst  the  bones  I  have  col- 
lected for  the  study  of  anatomy,  which  any  slightly 
scientific  person  would  at  once  recognise  as  that  of  a  dog. 
It  is  a  beautiful  little  skull,  finely  developed,  and  one 
sees  at  a  glance  that  the  animal,  when  it  was  alive,  must 
have  possessed  more  than  ordinary  intelligence.  The 
scientific  lecturer  would  consider  it  rather  valuable  as  an 
illustration  of  cranial  structure  in  the  higher  animals  ;  he 
might  compare  it  with  the  skull  of  a  crocodile,  and 
deduce  conclusions  as  to  the  manifest  superiority  of  the 
canine  brain. 

To  me  this  beautiful  little  example  of  Divine  con- 
struction may  be  a  teacher  of  scientific  truths,  but  it  is 
also  a  great  deal  more  than  that.  My  memory  clothes 
it  with  mobile  muscles  and  skin,  covered  with  fine,  short 
hair,  in  patches  of  white  and  yellow.  Where  another 
sees  only  hollow  sockets  in  which  lurk  perpetual  shadows, 
I  can  see  bright  eyes  wherein  the  sunshine  played  long 
ago,  just  as  it  plays  in  the  topaz  depths  of  some  clear 


1 8  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 

northern  rivulet.  I  see  the  ears  too,  though  the  skull 
has  none ;  and  the  ears  listen  and  the  eyes  gaze  with  an 
infinite  love  and  longing. 

She  was  the  friend  of  my  boyhood,  reader,  the  com- 
panion of  a  thousand  rambles,  and  when  she  died  my 
boyhood  was  dead  also  and  became  part  of  the  irrecover- 
able past.  There  is  an  indentation  in  the  bone,  due  to 
an  accident.  How  well  I  remember  all  about  that 
accident !  How  tenderly  we  nursed  her,  how  glad  we 
were  when  she  got  well  again  and  followed  me  accord- 
ing to  her  wont !  I  wonder  how  many  miles  we  have 
travelled  together,  she  and  I,  along  the  banks  of  our  own 
stream  and  out  on  the  purple  moors ! 

Of  course  the  reader  cannot  be  expected  to  care  very 
much  about  a  poor  little  terrier  that  only  loved  its  young 
master,  as  all  dogs  will,  by  reason  of  the  instinct  that  is 
in  them,  and  died  more  than  eighteen  years  ago.  I  am 
willing  to  believe  that  millions  of  dogs  have  been  as  good 
as  she  was,  and  a  great  deal  more  valuable  in  the  market, 
but  no  skull  in  the  best  natural  history  collections  in 
Europe  could  tempt  me  to  part  with  this.  Every  year 
makes  the  relic  more  precious,  since  every  year  certain 
recollections  gradually  fade,  and  this  helps  me  to  recover 
them.  You  may  think  that  it  is  a  questionable  taste  to 
keep  so  ghastly  a  reminder.  It  does  not  seem  ghastly  to 
me,  but  is  'Only  as  the  dried  flower  that  we  treasure  in 
some  sacred  :book.  When  I  think  by  how  much  devoted 
affection  this  bony  tenement  was  once  inhabited,  it 
seems  to  me  still  a  most  fair  and  beautiful  dv/elling.  The 


DOGS.  19 

prevailing  idea  that  reigned  there  was  the  image  of  me, 
her  master.  Shall  I  scorn  this  ivory  cell  in  which  my 
own  picture  had  ever  the  place  of  honour  ? 

Many  a  man  past  the  middle  of  life  remembers  with 
a  quite  peculiar  and  especial  tenderness  that  one  dog 
which  was  the  dear  companion  of  his  boyhood.  No 
other  canine  friend  can  ever  be  to  us  exactly  what 
that  one  was  ;  and  here  let  me  venture  to  observe  that 
the  comparative  shortness  of  the  lives  of  dogs  is  the 
only  imperfection  in  the  relation  between  them  and  us. 
If  they  had  lived  to  threescore  years  and  ten,  man  and 
dog  might  have  travelled  through  life  together,  but  as  it 
is  we  must  either  have  a  succession  of  affections,  or  else, 
when  the  first  is  buried  in  its  early  grave,  live  in  a  chill 
condition  of  doglessness.  The  certainty  of  early  death  is 
added  to  the  possibility  of  accident  I  had  a  dog  of  great 
gifts,  exceptionally  intelligent,  who  would  obey  a  look 
where  another  needed  an  order,  and  of  rare  beauty  both 
of  colour  and  form.  One  evening  in  the  twilight  we  went 
out  together,  and,  as  cruel  fate  would  have  it,  I  crossed  a 
valley  where  there  was  a  deep  and  rapid  stream.  Rapid 
and  deep  it  was,  yet  not  much  wider  than  the  Strid  at 
Bolton,  and  there  was  a  mill  and  a  narrow  rustic  bridge. 
My  poor  dog  lingered  behind  a  few  minutes  in  the  deepen- 
ing twilight  and  I  called  for  him  in  vain.  He  had  tried 
to  leap  across  between  the  bridge  and  the  mill,  and  was 
hurried  to  destruction  along  an  irresistible  current,  be- 
tween walls  of  pitiless  stone  on  which  he  had  no  hold. 
I  cannot  think  of  that  twilight  even  now  without 


20  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 

painful  sorrow  for  my  poor,  imprudent  companion. 
All  dogs  are  worth  keeping,  but  there  are  very  great 
differences  in  their  natural  gifts,  and  that  one  had  a 
rare  intelligence.  He  would  sit  studying  his  master's 
face,  and  had  become  from  careful  observation  so  acute  a 
physiognomist  that  he  read  whatever  thoughts  of  mine 
had  any  concern  for  him. 

When  the  theory  of  selection  has  done  its  worst,  I  still 
cling  to  the  belief  that  the  relation  between  dog  and  man 
was  as  much  foreseen  and  intended  as  that  between  sun 
and  planet.  Man  has  succeeded  in  domesticating  several 
other  animals,  but  where  else  has  he  found  this  spirit  of 
unconquerable  fidelity?  It  has  not  been  developed  by 
kind  treatment,  it  has  not  even  been  sought  for  in  itself, 
or  made  an  aim  in  breeding.  Ladies  make  pets  of  their 
dogs,  but  all  the  shepherds  I  see  around  me  pay  them  in 
kicks,  and  curses,  and  starvation.  What  does  the  obscure 
member  of  a  pack  of  foxhounds  know  of  his  master's 
love  ?  As  much  has  a  Prussian  private  in  the  rifle-pit 
knew  of  the  tender  heart  of  Moltke.  I  have  seen  a  great 
deal  of  the  life  of  the  French  peasantry,  but  never  to  this 
day  have  I  seen  a  peasant  caress  his  dog  otherwise  than 
with  a  stick  or  a  wooden  shoe.  There  is  a  well-known 
picture,  by  Decamps,  called  '  The  Kennel,'  which  repre- 
sents a  huntsman  visiting  his  hounds,  and  he  is  lashing 
with  a  ponderous  whip.  .  Thousands  of  dogs,  whole  gene- 
rations of  them,  have  known  man  in  no  other  character 
than  that  of  a  merciless  commander,  punishing  the 
slightest  error  without  pity,  yet  bestowing  no  reward. 


DOGS. 


There  are  countries  where  the  dogs  are  never  fed,  where 
they  are  left  to  pick  up  a  bare  existence  amongst  the 
vilest  refuse,  and  where  they  walk  like  gaunt  images  of 
famine,  living  skeletons,  gnawing  dry  sticks  in  the  wintry 
moonlight,  doing  Nature's  scavenger- work  like  rats.  Yet 
in  every  one  of  these  miserable  creatures  beats  the  noble 
canine  heart — that  heart  whose  depths  of  devotion  have 
never  yet  been  sounded  to  the  bottom  ;  that  heart  which 
forgets  all  our  cruelty,  but  not  the  smallest  evidence  of 
our  kindness.  If  these  poor  animals  had  not  been  made 
to  love  us,  what  excellent  reasons  they  would  have  had 
for  hating  us  !  Their  love  has  not  been  developed  by 
care  and  culture,  like  the  nourishing  ears  of  wheat ;  but 
it  rises  like  warm,  natural  springs,  where  man  has  done 
nothing  either  to  obtain  them  or  to  deserve  them. 

I  please  myself  with  the  thought  that  every  man  is,  or 
may  be  if  he  will,  a  centre  round  which  many  kinds  of 
affection  press  with  gently  sustaining  forces.  Let  us 
not  undervalue  the  love  which  rises  up  to  us  from  below, 
bathing  our  feet  in  warmth.  Only  the  love  of  animals, 
and  that  of  children  whilst  they  are  still  quite  young,  is 
absolutely  free  from  criticism.  All  our  contemporaries 
criticise  us  ;  even  our  wives  do  in  their  hearts,  and  our 
sons  in  their  adolescence.  The  man  in  his  family  lives  in 
a  glass  case,  and  cannot  quite  withdraw  himself.  He  is 
surrounded  by  more  affection  than  the  bachelor,  but  he 
incurs  in  a  minor  degree  that  amenability  to  criticism 
which  is  the  penalty  of  a  prime  minister.  The  criticism 
may  not  be  openly  expressed,  but  so  soon  as  he  acts  inde- 


CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 


pendently  of  the  family  opinion  about  his  duties  he  feels 
that  it  is  there.  It  is  exceedingly  salutary,  no  doubt  ;  it 
keeps  us  in  the  path  of  duty  and  dignity;  it  saves  us  from 
many  aberrations.  And  still,  upon  the  whole,  we  know 
ourselves  to  be  such  lamentably  imperfect  characters,  that 
we  long  for  an  affection  altogether  ignorant  of  our  faults. 
Heaven  has  accorded  this  to  us  in  the  uncritical  canine 
attachment.  Women  love  in  us  their  own  exalted  ideals, 
and  to  live  up  to  the  ideal  standard  is  sometimes  rather 
more  than  we  are  altogether  able  to  manage  ;  children  in 
their  teens  find  out  how  clumsy  and  ignorant  we  are,  and 
do  not  quite  unreservedly  respect  us ;  but  our  dogs  adore 
us  without  a  suspicion  of  our  shortcomings.  There  is  only 
one  exception,  but  this  is  a  grave  one,  and  must  not  on 
any  account  be  forgotten.  A  good  sporting  dog  has  always 
an  intense  contempt  for  a  bad  sportsman,  so  that  a  man 
who  cannot  shoot  with  a  decent  degree  of  skill  does  best, 
like  a  miserable  amateur  violinist,  to  abstain  from  prac- 
tising altogether. 

There  are  thousands  of  anecdotes  illustrating  the 
wonderful  affection  which  dogs  bear  to  their  masters,  and 
as  the  world  goes  on  thousands  of  other  examples  will  be 
recorded,  but  no  one  will  ever  know  the  full  marvel  of 
that  immense  love  and  devotion.  It  is  inexhaustible,  like 
the  beauty  of  what  is  most  beautiful  in  nature,  like  the 
glory  of  sunsets  and  the  rich  abundance  of  that  natural 
loveliness  which  poets  and  artists  can  never  quite  reveal. 
We  do  not  know  the  depth  of  it  even  in  the  dogs  we  have 
always  with  us.  I  have  one  who  is  neither  so  intelligent 


DOGS.  23 


nor  so  affectionate  as  others  I  have  known,  and  to  my 
human  ignorance  it  seemed  that  he  did  not  love  me  very 
much.  But  once,  when  I  had  been  away  for  weeks,  his 
melancholy  longing,  of  which  he  had  said  nothing  to  any- 
body, burst  out  in  a  great  passionate  crisis.  lie  howled 
and  clamoured  for  admission  into  my  dressing-room,  pulled 
down  my  old  things  from  their  pegs,  dragged  them  into 
a  corner,  and  flung  himself  upon  them,  wailing  long  and 
wildly  where  he  lay,  till  a  superstitious  fear  came  on  all 
the  house  like  the  forerunner  of  evil  tidings.  Who  can 
tell  what  long  broodings,  unexpressed,  had  preceded 
this  passionate  outburst  ?  Many  a  dark  hour  had  he 
passed  in  silent  desolation,  wondering  at  that  inex- 
plicable absence,  till  at  length  the  need  for  me  became 
so  urgent  that  he  must  touch  some  cloth  that  I  had 
worn. 

We  know  not  the  heart-memory  which  these  animals 
possess,  the  long-retaining,  tender  recollection,  all  bound 
up  with  their  love.  A  dog  was  bereaved  of  his  master 
and  afterwards  became  old  and  blind,  passing  the  dark 
evening  of  his  existence  sadly  in  the  same  corner,  which 
he  hardly  ever  quitted.  One  day  came  a  step  like  that 
of  his  lost  master,  and  he  suddenly  left  his  place.  The 
man  who  had  just  entered  wore  ribbed  stockings;  the  old 
dog  had  lost  his  scent  and  referred  at  once  to  the  stockings 
that  he  remembered  rubbing  his  face  against  them.  Be- 
lieving that  his  master  had  returned  after  those  weary 
years  of  absence,  he  gave  way  to  the  most  extravagant 
delight.  The  man  spoke,  the  momentary  illusion  was 


24  CHAPTERS  ON  4NIMALS. 

dispelled,  the  dog  went  sadly  back  to  his  place,  lay 
wearily  down,  and  died. 

These  little  anecdotes,  and  there  are  many  such,  give 
us  glimpses  of  what  is  permanent  in  the  canine  heart  We 
think  that  dogs  are  demonstrative,  but  they  have  regrets 
of  which  they  tell  us  nothing.  It  is  likely  that  the  old 
blind  dog,  coiled  up  in  his  corner  day  and  night,  mourn- 
fully cherished  the  recollection  of  his  lost  master,  thinking 
of  him  when  the  people  in  the  house  little  suspected  those 
yearnings  of  melancholy  retrospect.  There  is  nothing  in 
nature  so  sad  as  that  obscure  despair.  The  dog  is  high 
enough  in  the  scale  of  being  to  feel  the  regrets  of  absence 
in  all  their  bitterness,  yet  not  high  enough  to  have  his 
anxieties  relieved  by  any  word  of  explanation.  Whether 
his  master  has  gone  to  the  next  country,  or  across  the 
sea,  or  to  Heaven,  he  has  no  possible  means  of  ascertain- 
ing— he  only  feels  the  long  sorrow  of  separation,  the 
aching  of  the  solitary  heart,  the  weariness  of  hope  defer- 
red, the  anxiety  that  is  never  set  at  rest. 

So  great  is  their  power  of  loving  that  we  cannot  help 
assigning  to  dogs — not  formally,  but  in  our  inward  esti- 
mates— a  place  distinct  from  the  brute  creation  generally. 
They  are  not  mere  animals,  like  sheep  and  oxen,  that  may 
be  slaughtered  as  a  matter  of  ordinary  business  without 
awakening  regret.  To  kill  a  dog  is  always  felt  to  be  a 
sort  of  murder ;  it  is  the  destruction  of  a  beautiful  though 
not  immortal  spirit,  and  the  destruction  is  the  more 
lamentable  for  its  very  completeness.  When  I  was  a  boy 
I  remember  crossing  a  stream  in  Lancashire  just  as  a 


DOGS.  25 

workman  came  to  the  same  place  followed  by  a  sharp- 
looking  little  brown  terrier  dog.  It  went  snuffing  about 
under  the  roots  as  such  little  dogs  will,  and  then  the  man 
whistled  and  it  came  to  him  at  full  speed.  He  caressed  it, 
spoke  to  it  very  kindly  but  very  sadly,  and  then  began 
to  tie  a  great  stone  to  its  neck.  '  What  are  you  doing  that 
for  ?'  I  asked.  '  Because  I  cannot  afford  to  pay  the  dog- 
tax,  and  nobody  else  shall  have  my  little  Jip.'  Then  he 
threw  it  into  the  stream.  The  water  was  not  deep,  and  it 
was  perfectly  clear,  so  that  we  saw  the  painful  struggles 
of  the  poor  little  terrier  till  it  became  insensible,  and  we 
were  both  fixed  to  the  spot  by  a  sort  of  fascination.  At 
last  the  man  turned  away  with  a  pale  hard  face,  suffering, 
in  that  moment,  more  than  he  cared  to  show,  and  I  went 
my  way  carrying  with  me  an  impression  which  is  even 
now  as  strong  as  ever  it  was.  I  felt  that  what  I  had  wit- 
nessed was  a  murder.  Many  years  after,  I  shot  a  dog  of 
my  own  (a  magnificent  blood-hound  mastiff)  because  he 
was  an  irreclaimable  sheep-killer ;  but  the  revolver  I  did 
it  with  instantly  became  so  hateful  that  I  could  not  bear 
the  sight  of  it,  and  never  fired  it  afterwards.  Even  now, 
if  he  could  but  be  raised  from  the  dead,  how  gladly  would 
I  welcome  him,  how  securely  would  I  rely  for  perfect 
forgiveness  on  his  noble  canine  magnanimity  !  No,  these 
creatures  are  not  common  brutes,  they  are  our  most 
trusting  friends,  and  we  cannot  take  away  their  lives 
without  a  treacherous  betrayal  of  that  trust. 

A  word  came  under  my  pen  just   now  by  accident 
which  belongs  quite  peculiarly  to  the  canine  nature.     It 


26  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 

does  not  belong  to  all  dogs ;  there  are  little  breeds  which 
seem  to  be  almost  destitute  of  it,  but  all  the  nobler  breeds 
are  magnanimous.  As  we  are  told  to  go  to  the  ant  to 
learn  industry,  so  we  may  go  to  the  dog  for  an  example 
of  magnanimity.  The  finest  touches  of  it  in  his  nature  are 
not  so  much  in  the  absolute  insensibility  to  offence  as  in  his 
courteous  willingness  to  attribute  offences  which  he  cannot 
possibly  overlook  to  some  pardonable  mistake  of  yours, 
or  blameable  error  of  his  own.  Even  when  most  severely 
punished  he  never  seems  to  doubt  the  justice  of  the 
punishment,  but  takes  it  in  the  finest  possible  temper,  as 
a  perfect  Christian  would  take  chastisement  at  the  hand 
of  God.  And  pray  observe  that  with  all  this  submissive- 
ness,  with  all  this  readiness  to  forget  your  severity  and  to 
bask  in  the  first  gleam  of  the  sunshine  of  your  clemency, 
there  is  not  the  faintest  trace  of  snobbishness  in  his  nature. 
The  dog  is  faithful  to  his  master  even  when  he  gets  hardly 
anything  out  of  him.  It  is  said  that  every  dog  is  an 
aristocrat,  because  rich  men's  dogs  cannot  endure  beggars 
and  their  rags,  and  are  civil  only  to  well-dressed  visitors. 
But  the  truth  is  that,  from  sympathy  for  his  master,  the 
dog  always  sees  humanity  very  much  from  his  master's 
point  of  view.  The  poor  man's  dog  does  not  dislike  the 
poor.  I  may  go  much  farther  than  this,  and  venture  to 
assert  that  a  dog  who  has  lived  with  you  for  years  will 
make  the  same  distinction  between  your  visitors  that  you 
make  yourself,  inwardly,  notwithstanding  the  apparent 
uniformity  of  your  outward  politeness.  My  dog  is  very 
civil  to  people  I  like,  but  he  is  savage  to  those  I  dislike, 


DOGS.  27 


whatever  the  tailor  may  have  done  to  lend  them  external 
charms.  I  know  not  how  he  discovers  these  differences 
in  my  feelings,  except  it  be  by  overhearing  remarks  when 
the  guests  are  gone. 

How  much  do  dogs  really  understand  of  our  language  ? 
Perhaps  a  good  deal  more  than  we  generally  imagine. 
Please  observe  that  in  learning  a  foreign  tongue  you 
arrive  at  a  certain  stage  where  most  of  what  the  foreign 
people  say  is  broadly  intelligible  to  you,  and  yet  you 
cannot  express  yourself  at  all.  Very  young  children 
understand  a  great  deal  before  they  are  able  to  express 
themselves  in  words.  Even  horses, — and  horses  are 
incomparably  less  intelligent  than  dogs, — understand  a 
complete  vocabulary  of  orders.  May  not  a  dog  of  ability 
enter,  to  some  extent,  into  the  meaning  of  spoken  lan- 
guage even  though  he  may  never  be  able  to  use  it  ? 
Without  giving  the  reins  to  imagination,  it  may  be  pre- 
sumed that  some  dogs  know  at  laast  the  names  of  dif- 
ferent people,  and  may  take  note  of  the  manner,  cordial 
or  otherwise,  in  which  we  pronounce  them.  Whatever 
they  may  know  of  spoken  language,  it  is  quite  clear  that 
they  understand  the  language  of  manner,  and  have  a  very 
delicate  appreciation  of  human  behaviour. 

Besides  the  love  which  the  dog  has  for  his  master,  and 
for  him  alone,  he  has  his  friendships  and  acquaintances 
with,  humanity.  And  as  a  married  man  may  quite  inno- 
cently establish  friendships  with  ladies  whom  he  likes  and 
respects,  so  the  most  faithful  of  dogs  may  have  kindly 
feelings  for  men  who  stand  in  no  nearer  relation  to  him 


28  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 

than  that  of  acquaintance.  All  my  friends'  dogs  are 
polite  acquaintances  of  mine,  and  conduct  themselves 
with  becoming  courtesy.  One  fat  lady  is  the  happy  owner 
of  the  tiniest  creature  that  ever  aspired  to  the  dignity  of 
dog-hood,  and  as  our  acquaintance  seemed  to  have  rip- 
ened into  an  intimacy,  I  invited  Bellona  (for  such  was 
her  warlike  name)  to  share  with  me  the  perilous  pleasures 
of  a  canoe-voyage.  This,  however,  was  presuming  too 
far,  and  at  the  first  landing  she  deserted  the  ship  and  fled 
homewards,  like  a  frightened  rabbit,  across  the  fields. 
There  are  limits  to  the  liaisons.  On  the  other  hand,  I 
once  invited  a  friend's  dog  to  accompany  me  on  an  eques- 
trian excursion,  and  he  followed  my  horse  for  eighty 
miles,  enjoying  the  change  of  scene  and  the  meals  we 
shared  together.  It  has  also  happened  to  me,  to  send  a 
formal  written  invitation  to  a  friend's  dog  to  come  and 
stay  with  me  for  a  fortnight.  He  accepted  the  invitation, 
came  by  railway,  and  behaved  himself  in  the  most  charm- 
ing manner,  renewing  our  ancient  friendship  with  the 
most  amicable  demonstrations.  It  is  needless  to  add  that 
he  was  received  with  all  the  honour  that  the  laws  of  hos- 
pitality exact.  Sometimes  a  dog  will  forget  a  mere  friend, 
though  he  never  forgets  his  master.  I  remember  crossing 
a  public  square  in  winter,  at  midnight,  and  seeing  a  poor 
lost  dog  that  I  recognised  as  an  old  acquaintance.  There 
could  be  no  mistake  about  it,  she  had  every  physical 
mark  and  sign  of  the  gentle  little  creature  that  I  knew, 
the  only  cause  of  doubt  was  that  she  could  not  be  induced 
to  give  the  slightest, — no,  not  the  very  slightest,  sign  of 


DOGS.  29 


recognition.  I  caught  her  and  carried  her  in  my  arms  to 
the  hotel,  held  her  up  to  the  light,  examined  every  mark 
. — the  body  was  all  there,  but  where  was  the  friendly 
.heart  that  used  to  beat  with  gladness  when  we  met,  far  in 
the  quiet  country,  in  the  lanes  and  fields  about  her  home? 
I  put  her  down,  and  she  immediately  escaped  and  was 
lost  again  in  the  windings  of  the  streets.  The  next  morn- 
ing I  went  early  to  the  farm  she  lived  at  and  inquired  if 
she  were  lost.  Yes,  it  was  true,  she  had  been  lost  in  the 
confusion  of  the  fair.  Later  she  found  her  own  way 
back  again  and  behaved  to  me  as  amiably  as  ever.  Pro- 
bably, in  the  town,  the  sight  of  so  many  people  had 
bewildered  her  till  she  could  not  recognise  a  friend,  but  a 
dog  knows  his  master  everywhere. 

One  of  my  dog-friends  knew  me,  however,  and  behaved 
well  to  me  under  very  trying  circumstances  indeed,  for  he 
was  suffering  from  hydrophobia.  I  was  perfectly  aware 
myself  of  the  terrible  nature  of  his  ailment,  but  he  came 
to  me,  and  put  his  head  between  my  knees,  like  a  sick 
child,  and  I  caressed  it  out  of  very  profound  pity.  When 
the  paroxysms  became  violent  as  the  disease  advanced, 
the  dog  still  controlled  himself,  and  his  master  took  him 
in  his  arms  and  carried  the  poor  beast  up  into  a  vacant 
garret  and  locked  the  door.  Then  he  made  a  hole  in  the 
thin  brick  partition,  and  with  a  small  rifle,  of  the  kind 
used  for  rook-shooting,  put  an  end  to  an  existence  that 
had  become  intolerable.  Of  all  the  ills  that  flesh  is  heir 
to  there  is  not  one  so  terrible  as  this  mysterious  madness. 
Every  year  human  victims  perish  in  its  unutterable 


30  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 

agony.  Scarcely  less  terrible  than  the  disease  itself  is  the 
awful  apprehension  of  it  for  weeks  and  months  after  the 
poisonous  bite.  A  young  man  died  last  year  within  a 
little  distance  of  my  home,  and  the  dog  that  killed  him 
had  bitten  three  other  persons,  who  from  that  time  till 
now  have  been  expecting  the  fearful  symptoms.  Think 
what  it  must  be  to  pass  month  after  month  with  the  hor- 
rible suggestion  incessantly  recurring,  '  Am  I  to  go  mad 
to-morrow  ?'  Even  these  fears  do  not  deter  heroic  natures 
from  the  performance  of  what  they  consider  to  be  their 
duty.  A  French  boy,  in  a  locality  well  known  to  me, 
was  taking  his  little  sister  to  school.  In  the  narrow  path 
they  met  a  dog,  and  the  dog  was  raging  mad.  It  bit  the 
boy,  but  he  seized  it  by  the  cellar  and  held  it,  calling  to 
his  sister  to  escape.  The  girl  escaped,  the  boy  died  of 
hydrophobia.  A  similar  case  occurred  at  another  spot  I 
know,  where  a  wolf  attacked  a  man  and  a  woman.  The  wolf 
happened  to  be  suffering  from  hydrophobia,  and  bit  the 
man,  who  died.  The  woman  escaped  by  getting  into  a 
tree.  A  healthy  wolf  may  be  an  unpleasant  animal  to 
meet  in  forest-paths,  but  a  mad  one  is  much  worse.  A 
friend  of  mine  witnessed  a  terrible  encounter  between  a 
blacksmith  and  a  mad  dog.  A  whole  village  was  in  con- 
sternation on  account  of  a  great  dog  that  was  rushing 
about  in  a  state  of  very  advanced  hydrophobia,  when  the 
blacksmith  went  forth  armed  with  a  large  hammer  and 
nothing  else,  to  meet  the  common  enemy.  He  walked 
in  the  middle  of  the  village  street,  when  at  length  the 
beast  came,  going  on  in  a  straight  line.  The  first  hammer- 


DOGS.  31 


blow  missed  its  aim,  the  hammer  swung  clear,  but  the  dog 
stopped,  and  it  seemed  as  if  the  dreaded  poisonous  bite 
was  not  to  be  avoided  ;  however,  the  smith  recovered  his 
position  rapidly  enough  to  deliver  a  second  blow,  this 
time  fatal,  before  the  animal  touched  him.  He  had  shown 
great  courage  whilst  the  danger  lasted,  but  as  soon  as  it 
was  over  he  fainted. 

Let  us  change  the  subject,  and  quit  this  horrible 
topic,  hydrophobia,  with  its  hopeless  and  unimaginable 
miseries.  In  all  the  grim  catalogue  of  diseases  surely 
this  is  the  most  awful !  Nothing  more  clearly  proves 
the  necessity  of  dogs  to  men,  or  the  strength  of  the  love 
we  bear  to  these  poor  creatures,  than  our  persistence  in 
keeping  so  near  to  us  the  source  of  so  frightful  a  calamity. 
Every  year  the  newspapers  tell  us  the  same  tale  of  its 
victims  ;  how  they  were  bitten  ;  how  the  madness  broke 
forth  at  last  and  led  them  to  the  inevitable  agony.  We 
cannot  realise  those  sufferings ;  we  cannot  by  any  effort 
of  sympathy  or  imagination  bring  ourselves  to  under- 
stand what  flowing  water,  to  us  so  sweet  a  refreshment, 
may  be  to  an  organisation  revolutionised  by  irresistible 
disease.  We  only  know  the  reality  of  the  suffering,  though 
its  nature  and  origin  are  mysteries. 


CHAPTER    III. 
DOGS  (continued). 

WOULD  that  dogs  could  communicate  their  health  and 
energy  to  us,  as  they  can  their  fearful  malady !  They 
possess  in  a  much  higher  degree  than  man,  the  power  of 
storing  up  energy  in  times  of  repose,  and  keeping  it  for 
future  use.  A  dog  spends  his  spare  time  in  absolute  rest, 
and  is  able  to  endure  great  drains  of  energy  on  due 
occasion.  He  lies  idly  by  the  fire,  and  looks  so  lazy, 
that  it  seems  as  if  nothing  could  make  him  stir,  yet  at  a 
sign  from  his  master  he  will  get  up  and  go  anywhere, 
without  hesitation  about  the  distance.  In  old  age  dogs 
know  that  they  have  not  any  longer  these  great  reserves 
of  force,  and  decline  to  follow  their  masters  who  go  out 
on  horseback,  but  will  still  gladly  follow  them  on  any 
merely  pedestrian  excursion,  well  knowing  the  narrow 
limits  of  human  strength  and  endurance.  Dogs  in  the 
prime  of  life  accomplish  immense  distances,  not  without 
fatigue,  for  these  efforts  exhaust  them  for  the  moment, 
but  they  have  such  great  recuperative  power  that  they 
entirely  recover  by  rest  I  know  a  very  small  dog  that 


DOGS.  33 

was  given  by  his  master  to  a  friend  who  lived  sixty  miles 
off.  His  new  proprietor  carried  him  in  the  inside  of  a 
coach  ;  but  the  next  morning  the  little  animal  was  in  his 
old  home  again,  having  found  his  way  across  country, 
and  a  most  fatiguing  and  bewildering  country  too, 
covered  with  dense  forests  and  steep  hills.  Has  the 
reader  ever  observed  how  much  swifter  dogs  are  than 
their  behaviour  would  lead  one  to  imagine  ?  Here  is  an 
illustration  of  what  I  mean.  I  know  a  very  rapid  coach 
which  is  always  preceded  by  a  middling-sized  dog  of  no 
particular  breed.  Well,  this  dog  amuses  itself  within  a 
yard  of  the  horses'  hoofs,  turning  round,  leaping,  looking 
at  other  vehicles,  snapping  at  other  dogs,  barking  at  its 
own  and  other  horses,  and  leading,  in  a  word,  exactly 
the  same  kind  of  life  as  if  it  were  amusing  itself  in  the 
inn-yard  before  starting.  Now,  consider  a  little  the 
amazing  perfection  of  organisation,  the  readiness  and 
firmness  of  nerve,  required  for  motions  so  complicated  as 
these,  and  the  bodily  energy,  too,  necessary  to  keep 
them  up,  not  for  a  few  yards,  but  mile  after  mile  as  the 
coach  rattles  along  the  road  !  One  false  step,  one  second 
of  delay,  and  the  dog  would  be  under  the  hoofs  of  the 
horses,  yet  he  plays  as  children  play  on  the  sea-shore 
before  the  slowly-advancing  tide.  With  the  dog's  energy, 
and  a  wiser  economy  of  it,  a  man  could  run  a  hundred 
miles  without  an  interval  of  rest. 

We  make  use  of  the  delicate  faculty  of  scent  possessed 
by  these  animals  to  aid  us  in  the  chase,  and  are  so  accus- 
tomed to  rely  upon  it  that  its  marvellousness  escapes 


34  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 

attention.  But  we  have  no  physical  faculty  so  exquisite 
as  this.  It  is  clear  that  the  dog's  opinions  about  odours 
must  be  widely  different  from  ours,  for  he  endures  very 
strong  smells  which  to  us  are  simply  intolerable,  and 
positively  enjoys  what  we  abominate ;  but  as  for  true 
delicacy  of  nerve,  which  I  take  to  be  the  power  of  de- 
tecting what  is  most  faint,  we  cannot  presume  to  the 
least  comparison  with  him.  Every  one  who  has  gathered 
wild  plants  knows  what  an  immense  variety  of  odours 
arise  from  the  plants  upon  the  ground — this  is  the  first 
complication ;  next  upon  that  (though  we  cannot  detect 
it)  are  traced  in  all  directions  different  lines  of  scent  laid 
down  by  the  passage  of  animals  and  men — this  is  the 
second  complication.  Well,  across  these  labyrinths  of 
misleading  or  disturbing  odours  the  dog  follows  the  one 
scent  he  cares  for  at  the  time  (notwithstanding  its  inces- 
sant alteration  by  mixture)  as  easily  as  we  should  follow 
a  scarlet  thread  on  a  green  field.  If  he  were  only  sensi- 
tive to  the  one  scent  he  followed,  the  marvel  would  be 
much  reduced,  but  he  knows  many  different  odours,  and 
selects  amongst  them  the  one  that  interests  him  at  the 
time.  The  only  human  faculty  comparable  to  this  is  the 
perception  of  delicate  tints  by  the  most  accomplished 
and  gifted  painters,  but  here  I  believe  that  the  intel- 
lectual powers  of  man  do  much  in  the  education  of  the 
eye.  No  young  child  could  ever  colour,  though  its  eye 
were  physically  perfect,  and  colouring  power  comes  only 
through  study,  which  is  always  more  or  less  a  definitely 
mental  operation.  The  dog  can  hardly  be  said  to  study 


DOGS.  35 

scents,  though  long  practice  through  unnumbered  genera- 
tions may  have  given  refinement  and  precision  to  his 
faculty. 

In  speaking  of  a  power  of  this  kind,  possessed  by 
another  animal,  we  are  liable  to  mistakes  which  proceed 
from  our  constant  reference  to  our  own  human  percep- 
tions. We  think,  for  instance,  that  the  odour  of  thyme 
is  strong,  whilst  for  us  the  scent  left  by  an  animal  in  its 
passage  may  be  so  faint  as  to  be  imperceptible ;  but 
scents  that  are  strong  for  us  may  be  faint  for  dogs,  and 
vice  versa.  Odours  are  not  positive  but  relative,  they 
are  sensations  simply,  and  the  same  cause  does  not 
produce  the  same  sensation  in  different  organisms.  A 
dog  rolls  himself  on  carrion,  and  unreflecting  people 
think  this  a  proof  of  a  disgustingly  bad  taste  on  his 
part;  but  it  is  evident  that  the  carrion  gives  him  a 
sensation  entirely  different  from  that  which  it  produces 
in  ourselves.  I  know  a  man  who  ysays  that  to  him  the 
odour  of  any  cheese  whatever,  even  the  freshest  and 
soundest,  is  disgusting  beyond  the  power  of  language 
to  express ;  is  it  not  evident  that  cheese  produces  in 
him  a  sensation  altogether  different  from  what  it  causes 
in  most  of  us  ?  The  smell  and  taste  of  dogs  may  be 
not  the  less  refined  and  delicate  that  they  differ  widely 
from  our  own.  The  cause  of  the  most  horrible  of  all 
smells  in  my  own  experience  is  a  mouse,  but  the  same 
cause  produces,  it  is  probable,  an  effect  altogether  dif- 
ferent upon  the  olfactory  nerves  of  cats.  These  mys- 
teries of  sensation,  in  other  beings,  are  quite  unfathom- 


36  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 

able,  and  our  human  theories  about  delicacy  of  taste 
are  not  worth  a  moment's  attention.  The  dog  is  quite 
as  good  an  authority  on  these  questions  as  the  best  of 
us. 

I  cannot  think  that  it  is  very  surprising  that  dogs 
should  remember  odours  well,  since  odours  so  long  retain 
the  power  of  awakening  old  associations  in  ourselves. 
I  distinctly  remember  the  odour  of  every  house  that  was 
familiar  to  me  in  boyhood,  and  should  recognise  it  at 
once.  In  the  same  way  dogs  know  the  scent  of  a  well- 
known  footstep,  even  after  long  separation.  An  officer 
returned  home  after  the  Franco-German  war  and  did 
not  meet  his  dog.  After  his  arrival  he  watched  for  the 
dog  through  the  window.  He  saw  it  at  last  in  a  state 
of  intense  excitement,  following  his  track  at  full  speed, 
never  raising  its  nostrils  from  the  ground,  and  then  came 
the  joyful  meeting — the  scent  had  been  recognised  from 
the  beginning,  even  in  a  much-frequented  street. 

Innumerable  anecdotes  might  be  collected  to  illus- 
trate the  reasoning  power  of  dogs.  A  certain  lawyer, 
a  neighbour  of  mine,  has  a  dog  that  guards  his  money 
when  clients  come  into  the  office.  There  are  two  or 
three  pieces  of  furniture,  and  sometimes  it  happens  that 
the  lawyer  puts  money  into  one  or  another  of  these, 
temporarily,  the  dog  always  watching  him,  and  guard- 
ing that  particular  piece  of  furniture  where  the  money 
lies.  In  this  instance  the  dog  had  gradually  become 
aware,  from  his  master's  manner,  that  money  was  an 
object  of  more  than  ordinary  solicitude ;  in  fact,  he  had 


DOGS.  37 


been  set  to  guard  coin  left  upon  the  table.  I  refrain 
from  repeating  current  stories  about  the  sagacity  of 
dogs,  because,  although  many  of  them  are  perfectly  cre- 
dible, they  are  naturally  exaggerated  in  transmission. 
I  happened  to  be  in  a  railway  carriage  where  several 
sportsmen  were  telling  marvellous  stories  about  their 
dogs,  whilst  an  elderly  man  sat  in  his  corner  and  said 
nothing.  At  last  he  spoke:  'Gentlemen,'  he  said,  'all 
this  is  very  remarkable,  but  I  have  a  dog  who  is  still 
more  wonderful  than  the  most  wonderful  of  yours.  For 
example,  you  see  that  river ;  well,  if  I  were  to  throw  a 
sovereign  into  that  river,  my  dog  would  immediately 
plunge  in  and  bring  me  the  change  in  silver'  'Really, 
sir,  you  surprise  me ! '  said  one  of  the  sportsmen,  not 
quick  enough  to  see  the  intended  sarcasm.  Auguste 
Villemot  used  to  tell  a  story  with  a  like  intention  about 
a  blind  man's  dog  in  Paris,  which,  after  receiving  money 
for  its  master,  continued  the  business  after  his  death, 
and  accumulated  a  considerable  fortune. 

Let  me  add  a  few  words  about  the  treatment  of  these 
faithful  friends  of  ours.  I  need  scarcely  protest  against 
the  ignorant  and  stupid  mutilation  of  dogs  by  cutting 
their  ears  and  tail.  From  the  artistic  point  of  view  this 
is  barbarous  in  the  last  degree,  because  it  spoils  their 
instruments  of  expression.  It  is  like  cutting  out  the 
tongue  of  a  human  being.  There  is  a  poor  dog  near  me 
whose  tail  has  been  amputated  at  the  very  root,  and  the 
consequence  is  that  he  cannot  tell  me  the  half  of  what  he 
thinks.  Sir  Edwin  Landseer  was  greatly  pleased  to  meet 


38  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 

with  a  dog-seller  who  would  not  mutilate  his  animals,  for 
the  reason  that  '  Sir  Edwin  Landseer  did  not  approve  of 
it'  In  a  smaller  way  every  one  of  us  may  exercise  the 
same  merciful  influence,  and  I  earnestly  request  every 
reader  of  these  lines  to  discourage  openly  the  mutilation 
of  dogs  and  other  animals.  It  is  an  evil  .very  generally 
prevalent  and  of  very  long  standing,  and  it  is  due  to  the 
desire  for  improving  nature,  for  turning  natural  things  as 
far  as  possible  into  artificial  things,  which  is  instinctive  in 
mankind  and  leads  to  the  most  useful  results ;  but  this 
is  one  of  its  false  directions.  People  who  are  only  par- 
tially civilised  do  not  see  where  they  ought  to  respect 
nature,  and  where  to  make  alterations ;  so  they  cannot 
leave  anything  alone.  The  highest  civilisation  does  little 
more  than  remove  impediments  to  perfect  natural  growth, 
and  accepts  the  divine  ideals  as  the  ideals  towards  which 
it  strives.  The  best  practical  way  to  prevent  people  from 
mutilating  dogs  is,  not  to  reason  on  the  subject  (for  reason 
is  far  too  weak  to  contend  against  custom),  but  to  employ 
ridicule.  I  make  it  a  rule  to  tell  everybody  who  keeps  a 
mutilated  dog,  that  his  dog  is  both  ugly  and  absurd  ;  and 
if  a  good  many  people  hear  me,  so  much  the  better. 
There  is  another  very  common  sort  of  cruelty  to  dogs, 
which  might  easily  be  prevented  by  the  exercise  of  a 
little  common  sense.  Many  dog-owners,  especially  kind- 
hearted  but  weak-minded  ladies,  are  accustomed  to  injure 
their  pets  by  giving  them  too  much  food  and  too  little 
exercise.  Pampered  dogs  are  certainly  not  the  happiest 
dogs.  Only  look  at  them !  Can  a  creature  which  was 


DOGS.  39 


intended  by  nature  for  the  most  exuberant  activity  be 
said  to  enjoy  life  when  it  can  hardly  waddle  across  a 
carpet  ?  There  is  not  an  honest  doctor  who,  after  examin- 
ing the  4eeth  and  breath,  and  observing  the  digestion  of 
these  wretched  martyrs  to  mistaken  kindness,  will  not 
tell  you  that  they  have  no  genuine  health,  and  without 
that  neither  dog  nor  man  can  be  happy.  If  you  really 
care  about  making  your  dog  happy,  the  way  to  do  so  is 
both  extremely  simple  and  perfectly  well  known.  Feed 
him  regularly  and  moderately,  see  that  his  bodily  func- 
tions go  as  they  ought  to  do,  and  vary  his  diet  when 
necessary.  Above  all,  give  him  plenty  of  exercise,  take 
him  out  with  you  into  the  fields  and  woods — that  is  what 
he  most  enjoys.  Keep  him  under  a  strict  and  wholesome 
discipline,  for  dogs  are  happiest,  as  men  are,  when  wisely 
and  steadily  governed.  Our  caresses  ought  to  be 
reserved  as  a  reward,  or  a  recognition,  not  given  conti- 
nually till  the  dog  is  weary  of  them.  In  the  same  way, 
besides  the  regular  food,  we  may  give  occasionally  little 
morsels  out  of  kindness,  because  he  values  the  kindness, 
just  as  we  like  a  cigar  that  a  friend  gives  us  out  of  his 
own  case.  His  happiness,  like  our  own,  is  best  promoted 
by  activity,  by  temperance,  by  obedience  to  duty,  and 
by  the  sort  of  affection  that  is  not  incompatible  with 
perfect  dignity,  of  which  every  noble  dog  has  his  full 
share. 

But  however  healthy  and  happy  a  dog  may  be,  there 
comes  a  time  at  last  when  the  gladness  fades  out  of  his 
life.  I  see  with  sorrow  that  my  poor  old  Tom  feels 


40  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 


obliged  to  decline  to  follow  me  now  when  I  go  out  on 
horseback.  This  is  one  of  the  first  symptoms  of  old  age, 
and  he  does  not  hear  so  well  or  see  so  well  as  formerly. 
Still,  on  a  bright  morning,  when  we  go  out  in  the  woods 
together,  he  is  quite  himself  again,  apparently,  and  the 
old  activity  revives.  It  is  that  last  renewal  of  summer 
which  precedes  the  frosts  of  autumn,  that  after-glow  in 
the  western  sky  which  is  so  swiftly  followed  by  the  leaden 
greys  of  night  One  of  my  neighbours  has  an  old  dog 
that  can  neither  hear  nor  see,  and  passes  the  dark,  silent 
days  in  an  arm-chair  which  has  been  given  to  him  for 
the  comfort  of  his  age.  One  sound  is  audible  by  him 
still,  and  one  only — a  little  shrill  silver  whistle  that  he 
has  obeyed  from  puppyhood  till  now.  It  is  one  of  the 
most  pathetic  sights  I  ever  witnessed,  when  the  master 
comes  and  sounds  the  piercing  call.  The  inert  thing  in 
the  arm-chair  becomes  galvanised  with  sudden  life, 
tumbles  down  upon  the  floor,  crawls  towards  the  sound, 
finds  the  beloved  hand,  and  licks  it.  They  pass  whole 
evenings  together  still,  that  gentle  master  and  his  poor  old 
friend.  And  still  in  that  dark  decrepitude  beats  the 
heart  of  inextinguishable  love. 

It  happens  very  fortunately  for  modern  art,  that  dogs 
have  not  only  the  interest  of  character  and  intelligence, 
which  is  what  the  general  public  cares  most  about,  but  also 
a  rich  variety  of  form  and  colour  and  texture,  abounding 
in  striking  contrasts,  delighting  the  eye  of  the  artist  whilst 
he  is  at  work,  and  permitting  him  to  make  good  pictures. 
Although  dogs  have  been  more  or  less  painted  and 


DOGS. 


carved  since  men  used  brush  and  chisel,  they  have  never 
held  so  important  a  position  in  art  as  they  do  now.  The 
modern  love  of  incident  in  pictures,  the  modern  delight 
in  what  has  been  aptly  called  '  literary  interest '  as 
distinguished  from  the  pure  pleasure  of  the  eyes,  naturally 
induce  us  to  give  a  very  high  place  to  dogs,  which  more 
than  all  other  animals  are  capable  of  awakening  an 
interest  of  this  kind.  The  dog  is  so  close  to  man,  so 
intimately  associated  with  his  life,  both  in  the  field  and 
in  the  house,  that  he  becomes  a  sharer  in  many  of  its 
incidents,  and  the  painter  scarcely  needs  a  pretext  for 
introducing  him.  In  such  a  picture,  for  example,  as  the 
'Order  of  Release'  (by  Millais),  the  dog  has  his  due 
importance  as  a  member  of  the  family,  and  the  painter 
does  not  ignore  the  canine  gladness  and  affection.  And 
so  in  the  illustration,  by  the  same  artist,  of  that  charming 
old  Scottish  song,  '  There  is  nae  luck  about  the  house,' 
the  dog  is  first  out  of  doors  to  go  and  meet  the  gudeman. 
In  Landseer's  '  Shepherd's  Chief  Mourner '  the  dog  is 
alone  in  his  lamentation,  and  yet  we  feel  that  the  bereav- 
ed creature  is  in  the  place  that  is  his  by  a  natural  right, 
by  right  of  long  service,  of  constant  companionship,  of 
humble  faithful  friendship  and  deep  love.  You  paint  a 
portrait  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  why  not  introduce  Maida  ? 
— of  young  Lord  Byron,  why  not  put  brave  Boatswain 
by  his  side  ?  These  creatures  rejoice  with  us  in  our  sports 
and  at  our  festivals,  and  they  mourn  for  us  in  the  hour  of 
that  separation  which  religion  and  science  agree  to 
consider  eternal.  We,  too,  mourn  for  them,  when  they 

G 


42  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 

leave  us,  and  pass  from  the  fulness  of  life  into  the  abyss 
of  nothingness.  There  may  be  human  relatives  for  whom 
you  will  wear  funereal  hatbands,  for  whom  you  will 
blacken  the  borders  of  envelopes  and  cards,  and  who, 
nevertheless,  will  not  be  regretted  with  that  genuine 
sorrow  that  the  death  of  a  dog  will  bring.  Many  a  tear 
is  shed  every  year  in  England  for  the  loss  of  these  humble 
friends,  and  many  a  heart  has  been  relieved  by  the 
welcome  tidings,  '  There's  life  in  the  old  dog  yet* 


43 


CHAPTER    IV. 

CATS. 

ONE  evening  before  dinner-time  the  present  writer  had 
occasion  to  go  into  a  dining-room  where  the  cloth  was 
already  laid,  the  glasses  all  in  their  places  on  the  side- 
board and  table,  and  the  lamp  and  candles  lighted.  A 
cat,  which  was  a  favourite  in  the  house,  finding  the  door 
ajar,  entered  softly  after  me,  and  began  to  make  a  little 
exploration  after  his  manner.  I  have  a  fancy  for  watching 
animals  when  they  think  they  are  not  observed,  so  I 
affected  to  be  entirely  absorbed  in  the  occupation  which 
detained  me  there,  but  took  note  of  the  cat's  proceedings 
without  in  any  way  interrupting  them.  The  first  thing 
he  did  was  to  jump  upon  a  chair,  and  thence  upon  the 
sideboard.  There  was  a  good  deal  of  glass  and  plate 
upon  that  piece  of  furniture,  but  nothing  as  yet  which,  in 
the  cat's  opinion,  was  worth  purloining  :  so  he  brought 
all  his  paws  together  on  the  very  edge  of  the  board,  the 
two  forepaws  in  the  middle,  the  others  on  both  sides,  and 
sat  balancing  himself  in  that  attitude  for  a  minute  or  two, 
whilst  he  contemplated  the  long  glittering  vista  of  the 


44  CHAPTERS  ON  JNIMJLS. 

table.  As  yet  there  was  not  an  atom  of  anything  eatable 
upon  it,  but  the  cat  probably  thought  he  might  as  well 
ascertain  whether  this  were  so  or  not  by  a  closer  inspec- 
tion, for  with  a  single  spring  he  cleared  the  abyss  and 
alighted  noiselessly  on  the  table-cloth.  He  walked  all 
over  it  and  left  no  trace ;  he  passed  amongst  the  slender 
glasses,  fragile-stemmed,  like  air-bubbles  cut  in  half  and 
balanced  on  spears  of  ice ;  yet  he  disturbed  nothing, 
broke  nothing,  anywhere.  When  his  inspection  was  over 
he  slipped  'out  of  sight,  having  been  perfectly  inaudible 
from  the  beginning,  so  that  a  blind  person  could  only 
have  suspected  his  visit  by  that  mysterious  sense  which 
makes  the  blind  aware  of  the  presence  of  another  creature. 

This  little  scene  reveals  one  remarkable  characteristic 
of  the  feline  nature,  the  innate  and  exquisite  refinement 
of  its  behaviour.  It  would  be  infinitely  difficult,  probably 
even  impossible,  to  communicate  a  delicacy  of  this  kind 
to  any  animal  by  teaching.  The  cat  is  a  creature  of  most 
refined  and  subtle  perceptions  naturally.  Why  should  she 
tread  so  carefully  ?  It  is  not  from  fear  of  offending  her 
master  and  incurring  punishment,  but  because  to  do  so  is 
in  conformity  with  her  own  ideal  of  behaviour;  exactly  as 
a  lady  would  feel  vexed  with  herself  if  she  broke  any- 
thing in  her  own  drawing-room,  though  no  one  would 
blame  her  maladresse  and  she  would  never  feel  the  loss. 

The  contrast  in  this  respect  between  cats  and  other 
animals  is  very  striking.  I  will  not  wrong  the  noble 
canine  nature  so  far  as  to  say  that  it  has  no  delicacy,  but 
its  delicacy  is  not  of  this  kind,  not  in  actual  touch,  as  the 


CATS.  45 

cat's  is.  The  motions  of  the  cat,  being  always  governed 
by  the  most  refined  sense  of  touch  in  the  animal  world, 
are  typical  in  quite  a  perfect  way  of  what  we  call  tact  in 
the  human  world.  And  as  a  man  who  has  tact  exercises 
it  on  all  occasions  for  his  own  satisfaction,  even  when 
there  is  no  positive  need  for  it,  so  a  cat  will  walk  daintily 
and  pbservantly  everywhere,  whether  amongst  the 
glasses  on  a  dinner-table  or  the  rubbish  in  a  farm-yard. 

It  is  easy  to  detract  from  the  admirableness  of  this 
delicate  quality  in  the  cat  by  a  reference  to  the  necessi- 
ties of  her  life  in  a  wild  state.  Any  one  not  much  dis- 
posed to  enter  into  imaginative  sentimentalities  about 
animals  might  say  to  us,  '  What  you  admire  so  much  as 
a  proof  of  ladylike  civilisation  in  the  cat,  is  rather  an 
evidence  that  she  has  retained  her  savage  habits.  When 
she  so  carefully  avoids  the  glasses  on  the  dinner-table 
she  is  not  thinking  of  her  behaviour  as  a  dependent  on 
civilised  man,  but  acting  in  obedience  to  hereditary 
habits  of  caution  in  the  stealthy  chase,  which  is  the 
natural  accomplishment  of  her  species.  She  will  stir  no 
branch  of  a  shrub  lest  her  fated  bird  escape  her,  and  her 
feet  are  noiseless  that  the  mouse  may  not  know  of  her 
coming."  This,  no  doubt,  would  be  a  probable  account 
of  the  origin  of  that  fineness  of  touch  and  movement 
which  belongs  to  cats,  but  the  fact  of  that  fineness  re- 
mains. In  all  the  domestic  animals,  and  in  man  himself, 
there  are  instincts  and  qualities  still  more  or  less  distinctly 
traceable  to  a  savage  state,  and  these  qualities  are  often 
the  very  basis  of  civilisation  itself.  That  which  in  the 


46  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 

wild  cat  is  but  the  stealthy  cunning  of  the  hunter,  is 
refined  in  the  tame  one  into  a  habitual  gentleness  often 
very  agreeable  to  ladies,  who  dislike  the  boisterous  de- 
monstrations of  the  dog  and  his  incorrigible  carelessness. 

This  quality  of  extreme  caution,  which  makes  the  cat 
avoid  obstacles  that  a  dog  would  dash  through  without  a 
thought,  makes  her  at  the  same  time  somewhat  reserved 
and  suspicious  in  all  the  relations  of  her  life.  If  a  cat  has 
been  allowed  to  run  half- wild  this  suspicion  can  never  be 
overcome.  There  was  a  numerous  population  of  cats  in 
this  half- wild  state  for  some  years  in  the  garrets  of  my 
house.  Some  of  these  were  exceedingly  fine,  handsome 
animals,  and  I  very  much  wished  to  get  them  into  the 
rooms  we  inhabited,  and  so  domesticate  them  ;  but  all  my 
blandishments  were  useless.  The  nearest  approach  to 
success  was  in  the  case  of  a  superb  white-and-black  ani- 
mal, who,  at  last,  would  come  to  me  occasionally,  and 
permit  me  to  caress  his  head,  because  I  scratched  him 
behind  the  ears.  Encouraged  by  this  measure  of  confi- 
dence, I  went  so  far  on  one  occasion  as  to  lift  him  a  few 
inches  from  the  ground  :  on  which  he  behaved  himself 
very  much  like  a  wild  cat  just  trapped  in  the  woods,  and 
for  some  days  after  it  was  impossible  even  to  get  near 
him.  He  never  came  down-stairs  in  a  regular  way,  but 
communicated  with  the  outer  world  by  means  of  roofs 
and  trees,  like  the  other  untameable  creatures  in  the  gar- 
rets. On  returning  home  after  an  absence  I  sought  him 
vainly,  and  have  never  encountered  him  since. 

This  individual  lived  on  the  confines  of  civilisation, 


CATS.  47 

and  it  is  possible  that  his  tendency  to  friendliness  might 
have  been  developed  into  a  feeling  more  completely 
trustful  by  greater  delicacy  and  care.  I  happened  to 
mention  him  to  an  hotel-keeper  who  was  unusually  fond 
of  animals,  and  unusually  successful  in  winning  their 
affections.  He  told  me  that  his  own  cats  were  remarkable 
for  their  uncommon  tameness,  being  very  much  petted 
and  caressed,  and  constantly  in  the  habit  of  seeing  num- 
bers of  people  who  came  to  the  hotel,  and  he  advised  me 
to  try  a  kitten  of  his  breed.  This  kitten,  from  hereditary 
civilisation,  behaved  with  the  utmost  confidence  from  the 
beginning,  and,  with  the  exception  of  occasional  absences 
for  his  own  purposes,  has  lived  with  me  regularly  enough. 
In  winter  he  generally  sleeps  upon  my  dog,  who  submits 
in  patience ;  and  I  have  often  found  him  on  horseback  in 
the  stable,  not  from  any  taste  for  equestrianism,  but  sim- 
ply because  a  horse-cloth  is  a  perpetual  warmer  when 
there  is  a  living  horse  beneath  it. 

All  who  have  written  upon  cats  are  unanimous  in  the 
opinion  that  their  caressing  ways  bear  reference  simply 
to  themselves.  My  cat  loves  the  dog  and  horse  exactly 
with  the  tender  sentiment  we  have  for  foot- warmers  and 
railway  rugs  during  a  journey  in  the  depth  of  winter,  nor 
have  I  ever  been  able  to  detect  any  worthier  feeling 
towards  his  master.  Ladies  are  often  fond  of  cats,  and 
pleasantly  encourage  the  illusion  that  they  are  affectionate; 
it  is  said  too  that  very  intellectual  men  have  often  a  liking 
for  the  same  animal.  In  both  these  cases  the  attachment 
seems  to  be  due  more  to  certain  other  qualities  of  the  cat 


48  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 

than  to  any  strength  of  sentiment  on  his  part.  Of  all 
animals  that  we  can  have  in  a  room  with  us,  the  cat  is 
the  least  disturbing.  Dogs  bring  so  much  dirt  into  houses 
that  many  ladies  have  a  positive  horror  of  them  ;  squirrels 
leap  about  in  a  manner  highly  dangerous  to  the  ornaments 
of  a  drawing-room ;  whilst  monkeys  are  so  incorrigibly 
mischievous  that  it  is  impossible  to  tolerate  them,  not- 
withstanding the  nearness  of  the  relationship.  But  you 
may  have  a  cat  in  the  room  with  you  without  anxiety 
about  anything  except  eatables.  He  will  rob  a  dish  if  he 
can  get  at  it,  but  he  will  not,  except  by  the  rarest  of  acci- 
dents, displace  a  sheet  of  paper  or  upset  an  inkstand.  The 
presence  of  a  cat  is  positively  soothing  to  a  student,  as 
the  presence  of  a  quiet  nurse  is  soothing  to  the  irritability 
of  an  invalid.  It  is  agreeable  to  feel  that  you  are  not 
absolutely  alone,  and  it  seems  to  you,  as  you  work,  as  if 
the  cat  took  care  that  all  her  movements  should  be  noise- 
less, purely  out  of  consideration  for  your  comfort.  Then, 
if  you  have  time  to  caress  her,  you  know  that  there  will 
be  purring  responses,  and  why  inquire  too  closely  into 
the  sincerity  of  her  gratitude  ?  There  have  been  instances 
of  people  who  surrounded  themselves  with  cats ;  old  maids 
have  this  fancy  sometimes,  which  is  intelligible,  because 
old  maids  delight  in  having  objects  on  which  to  lavish 
their  inexhaustible  kindness,  and  their  love  of  neatness 
and  comfort  is  in  harmony  with  the  neat  habits  01  these 
comfort-appreciating  creatures.  A  dog  on  velvet  is  evi- 
dently out  of  place,  he  would  be  as  happy  on  clean  straw, 
but  a  cat  on  velvet  does  not  awaken  any  sense  of  the 


CATS.  49 

incongruous.  It  is  more  difficult  to  understand  how  men 
of  business  ever  take  to  cats.  A  well-known  French  poli- 
tician, who  certainly  betrayed  nothing  feminine  in  his 
speeches,  was  so  fond  of  cats  that  it  was  impossible  to  dine 
peaceably  at  his  house  on  account  of  four  licensed  feline 
marauders  which  promenaded  upon  the  dinner-table, 
helping  themselves  to  everything,  and  jumping  about  the 
shoulders  of  the  guests.  It  may  be  observed  that  in  Paris 
cats  frequently  appear  upon  the  table  in  another  shape.  I 
once  stayed  in  a  house  not  very  far  from  the  great  tri- 
umphal arch  ;  and  from  my  window,  at  certain  hours  of 
the  day,  might  be  observed  a  purveyor  of  dead  cats  who 
supplied  a  small  cheap  restaurant  in  a  back  street.  I  never 
went  to  eat  at  the  restaurant,  but  ascertained  that  it  had 
a  certain  reputation  for  a  dish  supposed  to  be  made  of 
rabbits.  During  the  great  siege,  many  Parisians  who 
may  frequently  have  eaten  cat  without  knowing  it  (as  you 
also  may  perchance  have  done,  respected  reader)  came  to 
eat  cat  with  clear  knowledge  of  the  true  nature  of  the 
feast,  and  they  all  seem  to  agree  that  it  was  very  good. 
Our  prejudices  about  the  flesh  we  use  for  food  are  often 
inconsistent,  the  most  reasonable  one  seems  to  be  a  pre- 
ference for  vegetable  feeders,  yet  we  eat  lobsters  and 
pike.  The  truth  is  that  nobody  who  eats  even  duck 
can  consistently  have  a  horror  of  cat's  flesh  on  the 
ground  of  the  animal's  habits.  And  although  the 
cat  is  a  carnivorous  animal,  it  has  a  passionate  fond- 
ness for  certain  vegetable  substances,  delighting  in 
the  odour  of  valerian,  and  in  the  taste  of  asparagus, 

H 


50  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 

the    former  to   ecstasy,    the  latter   to    downright   glut- 
tony. 

Since  artists  cannot  conveniently  have  lions  and  tigers 
in  their  studios,  they  sometimes  like  to  have  cats  merely 
that  they  may  watch  the  ineffable  grace  of  their  motions. 
Stealthy  and  treacherous  as  they  are,  they  have  yet  a 
quite  peculiar  finish  of  style  in  action,  far  surpassing,  in 
certain  qualities  of  manner,  the  mos>t  perfectly-trained 
action  of  horses,  or  even  the  grace  of  the  roe- deer  or  the 
gazelle.  All  other  animals  are  stiff  in  comparison  with 
the  felines,  all  other  animals  haa/e  distinctly  bodies  sup- 
ported by  legs,  reminding  one  of  the  primitive  toy- 
maker's  conception  of  a  quadruped,  a  cylinder  on  four 
sticks,  with  a  neck  and  head  at  one  end  and  a  tail  at  the 
other.  But  the  cat  no  more  recalls  this  rude  anatomy 
than  does  a  serpent.  From  the  tips  of  his  whiskers  to 
the  extremities  of  tail  and  claws  he  is  so  mud:  living- 
india-rubber.  One  never  thinks  of  muscles  and  bones 
whilst  looking  at  him  (has  he  anv  muscles  and  bones  ?), 
but  only  of  the  reserved  electric  life  that  lies  waiting 
under  the  softness  of  the  fur.  What  bursts,  of  energy  the 
creature  is  capable  of !  I  once  shut  up  a  half-wild  cat  in 
a  room  and  he  flew  about  like  a  frightened  bird,  or  like 
leaves  caught  in  a  whirlwind.  He  dashed  against  the 
window-panes  like  sudden  hail,  ran  up  the  walls  like 
arrested  water,  and  flung  himself  everywhere  with  such 
rapidity  that  he  filled  as  much  space,  and  filled  it  almost 
as  dangerously,  as  twenty  flashing  swords.  And  yet  this 
incredibly  wild  energy  is  in  the  creature's  quiet  habits 


CATS.  51 

subdued  with  an  exquisite  moderation.  The  cat  always 
uses  precisely  the  necessary  force,  other  animals  roughly 
employ  what  strength  they  happen  to  possess  without 
reference  to  the  small  occasion.  One  day  I  watched  a 
young  cat  playing  with  a  daffodil.  She  sat  on  her  hind- 
legs  and  patted  the  flower  with  her  paws,  first  with  one 
paw  and  then  with  the  other,  making  the  light  yellow 
bell  sway  from  side  to  side,  yet  not  injuring  a  petal  or  a 
stamen.  She  took  a  delight,  evidently,  in  the  very  deli- 
cacy of  the  exercise,  whereas  a  dog  or  a  horse  has  no 
enjoyment  of  delicacy  in  his  own  movements,  but  acts* 
strongly  when  he  is  strong,  without  calculating  whether 
the  force  used  may  not  be  in  great  part  superfluous.  This 
proportioning  of  the  force  to  the  need  is  well  known  to  be 
one  of  the  evidences  of  refined  culture,  both  in  manners 
and  in  the  fine  arts.  If  animals  could  speak  as  fabulists 
have  feigned,  the  dog  would  be  a  blunt,  blundering  out- 
spoken, honest  fellow,  but  the  cat  would  have  the  rare 
talent  of  never  saying  a  word  too  much.  A  hint  of  the 
same  character  is  conveyed  by  the  sheathing  of  the  claws, 
and  also  by  the  contractability  of  the  pupil  of  the  eye. 
The  hostile  claws  are  invisible,  and  are  not  shown  when 
they  are  wanted,  yet  are  ever  sharp  and  ready.  The  eye 
has  a  narrow  pupil  in  broad  daylight,  receiving  no  more 
sunshine  than  is  agreeable,  but  it  will  gradually  expand 
as  twilight  falls,  and  clear  vision  needs  a  larger  and  larger 
surface.  Some  of  these  cat-qualities  are  very  desirable  in 
criticism.  The  claws  of  a  critic  ought  to  be  very  sharp, 
but  not  perpetually  prominent,  and  his  eye  ought  to  see 


52  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 

far  into  rather  obscure  subjects  without  being  dazzled  by 
plain  daylight. 

It  is  odd  that,  notwithstanding  the  extreme  beauty  of 
cats,  their  elegance  of  motion,  the  variety  and  intensity 
of  their  colour,  they  should  be  so  little  painted  by  consider- 
able artists.  Almost  all  the  pictures  of  cats  which  I 
remember  were  done  by  inferior  men,  often  by  artists  of 
a  very  low  grade  indeed.  The  reason  for  this  is  probably, 
that  although  the  cat  is  a  refined  and  very  voluptuous 
animal,  it  is  so  wanting  in  the  nobler  qualities  as  to  fail 
in  winning  the  serious  sympathies  of  noble  and  generous- 
hearted  men.  M.  Manet  once  very  appropriately  in- 
troduced a  black  cat  on  the  bed  of  a  Parisian  lorette,  and 
this  cat  became  quite  famous  for  a  week  or  two  in  all  the 
Parisian  newspapers,  being  also  cleverly  copied  by  the 
caricaturists.  No  other  painted  cat  ever  attracted  so 
much  attention,  indeed  '  Le  chat  de  M.  Manet '  amused 
Paris  as  Athens  amused  itself  with  the  dog  of  Alcibiades. 

M.  Manet's  cat  had  an  awful  look,  and  depths  of 
meaning  were  discoverable  in  its  eyes  of  yellow  flame  set 
in  the  blackness  of  the  night  There  has  always  been  a 
feeling  that  a  black  cat  was  not  altogether  'canny.' 
Many  of  us,  if  we  were  quite  sincere,  would  confess  to  a 
superstition  about  black  cats.  They  seem  to  know  too 
much,  and  is  it  not  written  that  their  ancestors  were  the 
companions  and  accomplices  of  witches  in  the  times  of 
old?  Who  can  tell  what  baleful  secrets  may  not  have 
been  transmitted  through  their  generations  ?  There  can 
be  no  doubt  that  cats  know  a  great  deal  more  than  they 


--~~&Z?r       7^3*3a*rg% 


CATS.  53 

choose  to  tell  us,  though  occasionally  they  may  let  a 
secret  out  in  some  unguarded  moment.  Shelley  the  poet, 
who  had  an  intense  sense  of  the  supernatural,  narrates 
the  following  history,  as  he  heard  it  from  Mr.  G.  Lewis : — 

'  A  gentleman  on  a  visit  to  a  friend  who  lived  on  the  skirts  of  an 
extensive  forest  on  the  east  of  Germany  lost  his  way.  He  wandered 
for  some  hours  among  the  trees,  when  he  saw  a  light  at  a  distance. 
On  approaching  it,  he  was  surprised  to  observe  that  it  proceeded 
from  the  interior  of  a  ruined  monastery.  Before  he  knocked,  he 
thought  it  prudent  to  look  through  the  window.  He  saw  a  multi- 
tude of  cats  assembled  round  a  small  grave,  four  of  whom  were 
letting  down  a  coffin  with  a  crown  upon  it.  The  gentleman,  startled 
at  this  unusual  sight,  and  imagining  that  he  had  arrived  among  tho 
retreats  of  fiends  or  witches,  mounted  his  horse  and  rode  away 
with  the  utmost  precipitation.  He  arrived  at  his  friend's  house  at 
a  iaie  hour,  who  had  sat  up  for  him.  On  his  arrival,  his  friend 
questioned  as  to  the  cause  of  the  traces  of  trouble  visible  on  his 
lace.  He  began  to'recount  his  adventure,  after  much  difficulty, 
knowing  that  it  was  scarcely  possible  that  his  friends  should  give 
faith  to  his  relation.  No  sooner  had  he  mentioned  the  coffin  with 
a  crown  upon  it,  than  his  friend's  cat,  who  seemed  to  have  been 
lying  asleep  before  the  fire,  leaped  up,  saying,  "  Then  I  am  the 
King  of  the  Cats!  "  and  scrambled  up  the  chimney  and  was  seen 


Now,  is  not  that  a  remarkable  story,  proving,  at  the 
same  time,  the  attention  cats  pay  to  human  conversation 
even  when  they  outwardly  seem  perfectly  indifferent  to 
it,  and  the  monarchical  character  of  their  political  organ- 
isation, which  without  this  incident  might  have  remained 
for  ever  unknown  to  us  ?  This  happened,  we  are  told,  in 
eastern  Germany;  but  in  our  own  island,  less  than  a 


54  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 

hundred  years  ago,  there  remained  at  least  one  cat  fit  to 
be  the  ministrant  of  a  sorceress.  When  Sir  Walter  Scott 
visited  the  Black  Dwarf,  'Bowed  Davie  Ritchie/  the 
Dwarf  said,  '  Man,  hae  ye  ony  poc/r  f  '  meaning  power  of  a 
supernatural  kind,  and  he  added  solemnly,  pointing  to  a 
large  black  cat  whose  fiery  eyes  shone  in  a  dark  corner 
of  the  cottage,  ' HE  has  poor ! '  In  Scott's  place  any 
imaginative  person  would  have  more  than  half  believed 
Davie,  as  indeed  did  his  illustrious  visitor.  The  ancient 
Egyptians,  who  knew  as  much  about  magic  as  the  wisest 
of  the  moderns,  certainly  believed  that  the  cat  had  poo'r, 
or  they  would  not  have  mummified  him  with  such  pains- 
taking conscientiousness,  It  may  easily  be  imagined, 
that  in  times  when  science  did  not  exist  a  creature,  whose 
fur  emitted  lightnings  when  anybody  rubbed  it  in  the 
dark,  must  have  inspired  great  awe,  and  there  is  really 
an  air  of  mystery  about  cats  which  considerably  exercises 
the  imagination.  This  impression  would  be  intensified 
in  the  case  of  people  born  with  a  physical  antipathy  to 
cats,  and  there  are  such  persons.  A  Captain  Logan,  of 
Knockshinnock  in  Ayrshire,  is  mentioned  in  one  of  the 
early  numbers  of  Chambers'  Journal  as  having  this  anti- 
pathy in  the  strongest  form.  He  simply  could  not 
endure  the  sight  of  cat  or  kitten,  and  though  a  tall,  strong 
man,  would  do  anything  to  escape  from  the  objects  of  his 
instinctive  and  uncontrollable  horror,  climbing  upon 
chairs  if  a  cat  entered  the  room,  and  not  daring  to  come 
down  till  the  creature  was  removed  from  his  presence. 
These  mysterious  repugnances  are  outside  the  domain  of 


CJTS.  55 

reason.  Many  people,  not  without  courage,  are  seized 
with  involuntary  shudderings  when  they  see  a  snake  or  a 
toad ;  others  could  not  bring  themselves  to  touch  a  rat, 
though  the  rat  is  one  of  the  cleanliest  of  animals — not, 
certainly,  as  to  his  food,  but  his  person.  It  may  be 
presumed  that  one  Mrs.  Griggs,  who  lived,  I  believe,  in 
Edinburgh,  did  not  share  Captain  Logan's  antipathy,  for 
she  kept  in  her  house  no  less  than  eighty-six  living  cats, 
and  had,  besides,  twenty-eight  dead  ones  in  glass  cases, 
immortalised  by  the  art  of  the  taxidermist.  If  it  is  true, 
and  it  certainly  is  so  in  a  great  fheasure,  that  those  wno 
love  most  know  most,  then  Mrs.  Griggs  would  have  been 
a  much  more  competent  person  to  write  on  cats  than  the 
colder-minder  author  of  these  chapters.  J>  is  wonderful 
to  think  how  much  that  good  lady  must  have  known  of 
the  lovcablcncss  of  cats,  of  those  recondite  qualities  which 
may  endear  them  to  the  human  heart ! 

What  a  difference  in  knowledge  and  feeling  concerning 
cats  between  Mrs.  Griggs  and  a  gamekeeper !  The  game- 
keeper knows  a  good  deal  about  them  too,  but  it  is  not 
exactly  affection  which  has  given  keenness  to  his  observ- 
ation. He  does  not  see  a  '  dear  sweet  pet '  in  every  cat 
that  crosses  his  woodland  paths,  but  the  most  destructive 
of  poachers,  the  worst  of  '  vermin.'  And  there  can  be  no 
doubt  that  from  his  point  of  view  the  gamekeeper  is  quite 
right,  even  as  good  Mrs.  Griggs  may  have  been  from 
hers.  If  cats  killed  game  from  hunger  only,  there  would 
be  a  limit  to  their  depredations,  but  unfortunately  they 
have  the  instinct  of  sport,  which  sportsmen  consider  a 


56  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 

very  admirable  quality  in  themselves,  but  regard  with  the 
strongest  disapprobation  in  other  animals.  Mr.  Frank 
Buckland  says,  that  when  once  a  cat  has  acquired  the 
passion  for  hunting  it  becomes  so  strong  that  it  is  im- 
possible to  break  him  of  it.  He  knew  a  cat  which  had 
been  condemned  to  death,  but  the  owner  begged  its  life 
on  condition  that  it  should  be  shut  up  every  night  and 
well  fed.  The  very  first  night  of  its  incarceration  it 
escaped  up  the  chimney,  and  was  found  the  next  morning, 
black  with  soot,  in  one  of  the  gamekeeper's  traps.  The 
keeper  easily  determines  what  kind  of  animal  has  been 
committing  depredations  in  his  absence.  '  Every  animal 
has  his  own  way  of  killing  and  eating  his  prey.  The  cat 
always  turns  the  skin  inside  out,  leaving  tne  same  reversed 
like  a  glove.  The  weasel  and  stoat  will  eat  the  brain 
and  nibble  about  the  head,  and  suck  the  blood.  The  fox 
will  always  leave  the  legs  and  hinder  parts  of  a  hare  or  a 
rabbit ;  the  dog  tears  his  prey  to  pieces,  and  eats  it 
"  anyhow — all  over  the  place ;  "  the  crows  anJ  magpies 
always  peck  at  the  eyes  before  they  touch  any  part  of 
the  body.' 

'Again,'  continues  Mr.  Frank  Buckland,  Met  the 
believer  in  the  innocence  of  Mrs.  Puss  listen  to  the  crow 
of  the  startled  pheasant ;  he  will  hear  him  "  tree,"  as  the 
keeper  can's  it,  and  from  his  safe  perch  up  in  a  branch 
again  crow  as  if  to  summon  his  protector  to  his  aid.  No 
second  summons  does  the  keeper  want ;  he  at  once  runs 
to  the  spot,  and  there,  stealing  with  erect  ears,  glaring 
eyes,  and  limbs  collected  together,  and  at  a  high  state  of 


CATS.  57 

tension,  ready  for  the  fatal  spring,  he  sees — what  ? — the 
cat,  of  course,  caught  in  the  very  attitude  of  premeditated 
poaching.' 

This  love  of  sport  might  perhaps  be  turned  to  account 
if  cats  were  trained  as  larger  felines  are  trained  for  the 
princes  of  India.  A  fisherman  of  Portsmouth,  called 
'  Robinson  Crusoe,'  made  famous  by  Mr.  Buckland,  had 
a  cat  called  'Puddles,'  which  overcame  the  horror  of 
water  characteristic  of  his  race,  and  employed  his  pisca- 
torial talents  in  the  service  of  his  master: — 

'He  was  the  wonderfullest  water-cat  as  ever  came  out  of 
Portsmouth  Harbor  was  Puddles,  and  he  used  to  go  out  a-fishing 
with  me  every  night.  On  cold  nights  he  would  sit  in  my  lap 
while  I  was  a-tishing  and  poke  his  head  out  every  now  and  then, 
or  else  I  would  wrap  him  up  in  a  sail,  and  make  him  lay  quiet. 
He'd  lay  down  on  me  when  I  was  asleep,  and  if  anybody  come  he'd 
swear  a  good  one,  and  have  the  face  off  on  'em  if  they  went  to 
touch  me ;  and  he'd  never  touch  a  fish,  not  even  a  little  teeny 
pout,  if  you  did  not  give  it  him.  I  was  obligated  to  take  him  out 
a-fishing,  for  else  he  would  stand  and  youl  and  marr  till  I  went 
back  and  catched  him  by  the  pol  and  shied  him  into  the  boat, 
and  then  he  was  quite  happy.  When  it  was  fine  he  used  to 
stick  up  at  the  bows  of  the  boat  and  sit  a-watching  the  dogs 
(i.  e.  dog-fish).  The  dogs  used  to  come  alongside  by  thousands  at 
a  time,  and  when  they  was  thick  all  about  he  would  dive  in  and 
fetch  them  out,  jammed  in  his  mouth  as  fast  as  may  be,  just  as  if 
they  was  a  parcel  of  rats,  and  he  did  not  tremble  with  the  cold 
half  as  much  as  a  Newfoundland  dog ;  he  was  used  to  it.  He 
looked  terrible  wild  about  the  head  when  ho  came  up  out  of  tho 
water  with  the  dog  fish.  I  larnt  him  the  water  myself.  One  day, 
when  he  was  a  kitten,  I  took  him  down  to  the  sea  to  wash  and 
brush  the  fleas  out  of  him,  and  in  a  week  he  could  swim  after  a 
feather  or  a  cork.' 

I 


58  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 

Of  the  cat  in  a  state  of  nature  few  of  us  have  seen 
very  much.  The  wild  cat  has  become  rare  in  the  British 
islands,  but  the  specimens  shot  occasionally  by  game- 
keepers are  very  superior  in  size  and  strength  to  the 
familiar  occupant  of  the  hearth-rug.  I  remember  that 
when  I  lived  at  Loch  Awe,  my  next  neighbour,  a  keeper 
on  the  Cladich  estate,  shot  one  that  quite  astonished 
me — a  formidable  beast  indeed,  to  which  the  largest 
domestic  cat  was  as  an  ordinary  human  being  to  Chang 
the  giant — indeed  this  comparison  is  insufficient.  Wild 
cats  are  not  usually  dangerous  to  man,  for  they  pru- 
dently avoid  him,  but  if  such  a  creature  as  that  killed 
on  Lochaweside  were  to  show  fight,  an  unarmed  man 
would  find  the  situation  very  perilous.  I  would  much 
rather  have  to  fight  a  wolf.  There  is  a  tradition  at  the 
village  of  Barnborough,  in  Yorkshire,  that  a  man  and  a 
wild  cat  fought  together  in  a  wood  near  there,  and  that 
the  combat  went  on  till  they  got  to  the  church-porch, 
when  both  died  from  their  wounds.  It  is  the  marvellous 
agility  of  the  cat  which  makes  him  such  a  terrible  enemy; 
to  say  that  he  'flies'  at  you  is  scarcely  a  figure  of 
speech.  However,  the  wild  cat,  when  he  knows  that  he 
is  observed,  generally  seeks  refuge,  as  King  Charles  did 
at  Boscobel,  in  the  leafy  shelter  of  some  shadowy  tree, 
and  there  the  deadly  leaden  hail  too  surely  follows  him, 
and  brings  him  to  earth  again. 

Cats  have  the  advantage  of  being  very  highly  con- 
nected, since  the  king  of  beasts  is  their  blood-relation, 
and  it  is  certain  that  a  good  deal  of  the  interest  we  take 


CATS.  59 

in  them  is  due  to  this  august  relationship.  What  the 
merlin  or  the  sparrow-hawk  is  to  the  golden  eagle,  the 
cat  is  to  the  great  felines  of  the  tropics.  •  The  difference 
between  a  domestic  cat  and  a  tiger  is  scarcely  wider  than 
that  which  separates  a  miniature  pet  dog  from  a  blood- 
hound. It  is  becoming  to  the  dignity  of  an  African 
prince,, like  Theodore  of  Abyssinia,  to  have  lions  for  his 
household  pets.  The  true  grandeur  and  majesty  of  a 
brave  man  are  rarely  seen  in  such  visible  supremacy  as 
when  he  sits  surrounded  by  these  terrible  creatures,  he 
in  his  fearlessness,  they  in  their  awe ;  he  in  his  defence- 
less weakness,  they  with  that  mighty  strength  which  they 
dare  not  use  against  him.  One  of  my  friends,  distin- 
guished alike  in  literature  and  science,  but  not  at  all  the 
sort  of  person,  apparently,  to  command  respect  from 
brutes  who  cannot  estimate  intellectual  greatness,  had 
one  day  an  interesting  converation  with  a  lion-tamer, 
which  ended  in  a  still  more  interesting  experiment.  The 
lion-tamer  affirmed  that  there  was  no  secret  in  his  pro- 
fession, that  real  courage  alone  was  necessary,  and  that 
any  one  who  had  the  genuine  gift  of  courage  could 
safely  enter  the  cage  along  with  him.  'For  example, 
you  yourself,  sir,'  added  the  lion-tamer,  '  if  you  have 
the  sort  of  courage  I  mean,  may  go  into  the  cage  with 
me  whenever  you  like.'  On  this  my  friend,  who  has  a 
fine  intellectual  coolness  and  unbounded  scientific 
curiosity,  willingly  accepted  the  offer,  and  paid  a  visit  to 
their  majesties  the  lions  in  the  privacy  of  their  own 
apartment  They  received  him  with  the  politeness  due 


60  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 

to  a  brave  man,  and  after  an  agreeable  interview  of 
several  minutes  he  backed  out  of  the  royal  presence  with 
the  gratified  feelings  of  a  gentleman  who  has  just  been 
presented  at  court. 


6i 


CHAPTER  IV. 
HORSES. 

IT  happened  to  me  one  night  during  the  late  war  in 
France  to  ride  into  the  court-yard  of  an  inn  which  was 
full  of  French  artillerymen.  In  the  bustle  and  hurry  of 
the  time  it  was  useless  to  call  for  the  services  of  an  ostler, 
so  I  set  about  seeking  for  stable-room  myself.  In  the 
French  country  inns  there  are  no  stalls,  and  the  only 
division  between  the  horses,  when  there  is  any  separation 
at  all,  is  a  board  suspended  at  one  end  by  an  iron  hook 
to  the  manger,  and  at  the  other  hanging  from  the  roof  by 
a  knotted  cord.  In  this  inn,  however,  even  the  hanging- 
board  was  wanting,  and  about  fifty  artillery  horses  were 
huddled  together  so  closely  as  almost  to  touch  each  other, 
so  that  it  was  difficult  to  find  an  open  space  for  my  mare. 
At  last  I  found  an  opening  near  a  magnificent  black  ani- 
mal, which  I  supposed  to  be  an  officer's  saddle-horse. 

A  fine  horse  is  always  an  attraction  for  me,  so  as  soon 
as  I  had  finished  such  arrangements  as  were  possible  for 
the  comfort  of  my  own  beast,  I  began  to  examine  her 
neighbour  rather  minutely.  He  seemed  in  perfect  health, 


6 2  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 

but  at  last  I  discovered  a  fresh  wound  on  the  near  fore- 
leg, evidently  caused  by  the  fragment  of  a  shell.  (There 
had  been  a  battle  at  the  place  the  day  before.)  Turning 
to  an  artilleryman  who  was  standing  by,  I  asked  if  the 
veterinary  surgeon  thought  he  could  save  the  horse. 
'  No,  sir,  he  is  to  be  shot  to-morrow  morning.'  This  deci- 
sion seemed  hard,  for  the  horse  stood  well,  and  was  eating 
his  hay  tranquilly.  I  felt  strongly  tempted  to  beg  him, 
and  see  what  rest  and  care  could  accomplish. 

At  midnight  I  came  back  for  my  own  mare.  There 
was  a  great  and  terrible  change  in  her  neighbour's  con- 
dition. He  lay  in  the  straw,  half  under  her,,  the  place  was 
so  crowded.  I  shall  never  forget  his  piteous  cries  and 
moans.  He  could  not  rise,  and  the  shattered  limb  was 
causing  him  cruel  pain.  His  noble  head  lay  at  my  feet, 
and  I  stooped  to  caress  it. 

'  So  this  is  the  reward,'  I  thought,  '  that  man  gives  to 
the  best  and  bravest  servant  that  he  has  !  A  long  night 
of  intolerable  anguish,  unrelieved  by  any  attempt  what- 
ever to  soothe  or  ease  his  pain ;  in  the  morning,  the  de- 
layed charity  of  a  rifle-bullet !'  This  single  instance,  which 
moved  me  because  I  had  seen  it,  perhaps  a  little  also 
because  the  animal  was  beautiful  and  gentle,  what  was  it, 
after  all,  in  comparison  with  the  incalculable  quantity  of 
animal  suffering  which  the  war  was  causing  in  half  the 
provinces  of  France  ?  These  reflections  filled  me  with  pain 
and  sadness  as  I  rode  over  the  battle-ground  in  the  frosty 
moonlight.  The  dead  horses  lay  there  still,  just  as  they 
fell,  and  for  them  I  felt  no  pity.  Swift  death,  sudden  obli- 


HORSES.  63 


vion,  rest  absolute,  unconscious,  eternal,  these  are  not 
evils ;  but  the  pain  of  the  torn  flesh  and  the  shattered 
bone,  the  long  agony  in  hunger  and  cold;  the  anguish  of 
the  poor  maimed  brutes,  who  struggle  through  the  last 
dark  passages  of  existence,  without  either  the  pride  of  the 
soldier,  the  reason  of  the  philosopher,  or  the  hope  of  the 
Christian — that  is  Evil,  pure  and  unmixed! 

Like  all  who  love  animals  much,  I  know  and  remember 
them  as  I  know  and  remember  men.  During  the  war  I 
had  acquaintances  amongst  the  officers  and  soldiers,  and 
acquaintances  amongst  their  horses  likewise ;  and  when 
they  rode  forth  to  battle  I  was  pretty  nearly  as  anxious 
about  the  animals  as  about  the  brave  men  who  mounted 
them.  I  remember  a  Garibaldian  sergeant,  whose  red 
shirt  was  frequently  visible  in  my  court-yard,  a  youth 
overflowing  with  life,  to  whom  the  excitement  of  a  battle 
from  time  to  time  was  as  necessary  as  that  of  a  ball  is  to 
a  lively  young  lady.  His  way  of  riding  was  the  nearest 
approach  to  that  of  an  enraptured  bard  on  Pegasus  that 
I  ever  witnessed  amongst  the  realities  of  the  earth.  My 
house  is  situated  something  like  a  tower,  with  views  in 
every  direction,  and  I  used  to  amuse  myself  with  watch- 
ting  him  from  the  upper  windows  when  the  fit  of  eques- 
trian inspiration  was  upon  him.  The  red  shirt  flew  first 
along  the  high-road,  then  dashed  suddenly  down  a  lane  ; 
a  little  later  you  could  see  it  flashing  scarlet  along  the 
outskirts  of  a  distant  wood  ;  then,  after  a  brief  eclipse,  it 
reappeared  in  the  most  unexpected  places.  The  lad 
careered  in  this  way  simply  for  his  amusement, — for  the 


64  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 

pulsation  of  that  wild  delight  that  his  fiery  nature  needed. 
It  is  a  fact  that  he  did  not  even  hold  the  reins.  When  these 
mad  fits  of  equestrianism  seized  him,  he  flung  the  bridle 
on  his  charger's  neck,  threw  his  arms  high  in  the  air,  and 
then  made  them  revolve  like  the  paddle-wheels  of  a 
steamier.  He  accompanied  these  gestures  with  wild  Italian 
cries,  and  a  double  stroke  of  the  spurs.  No  wonder  if  his 
horse  galloped  !  And  he  did  gallop.  When  the  rider 
wanted  to  turn  down  a  lane  he  simply  gave  his  steed  a 
hearty  slap  on  the  off-side  of  the  neck, — a  hint  which 
never  seemed  to  be  misunderstood.  I  have  witnessed  a 
good  deal  of  remarkable  equestrianism,  but  never  any- 
thing like  that  His  horse  was  one  of  the  ugliest,  and 
one  of  the  best,  that  soldier  ever  bestrode.  I  have  a  faint 
recollection  of  seeing  a  child's  wooden  horse  which  so 
closely  resembled  it,  that  the  artist  must  have  had  some 
such  model  in  his  mind.  A  great  round  barrel,  that 
seemed  as  if  it  had  been  turned  in  a  lathe,  a  broad  chest, 
straight  strong  legs,  very  short  proportionally,  shoulders 
far  forward  relatively  to  the  neck,  high  withers,  large  ugly 
head,  with  a  good-tempered  expression,  a  stump  for  a 
tail,  and  a  rough  coat  of  a  bay  quite  closely  resembling 
red  hair  in  the  human  species :  such  were  the  various 
beauties  of  this  war-horse.  His  ugliness  and  his  honest 
looks  gave  me  a  sort  of  attachment  to  him ;  and  his 
rider  loved  him  dearly,  and  was  loud  in  his  praise.  At 
length  the  regiment  was  ordered  to  Digon,  and  severely 
engaged  there  in  the  Battle  of  Paques.  Afterwards  I  saw 
the  sergeant's  red  shirt  again,  but  he  rode  no  longer  that 


HORSES.  65 


good  animal.  The  poor  thing  had  had  three  of  its  four 
legs  carried  away  by  a  cannon-ball ;  but  its  master,  though 
in  the  heat  of  the  battle,  humanely  ended  its  misery  with 
his  revolver. 

These  things,  of  course,  are  the  every-day  accidents  of 
war,  in  which  horses  are  killed  by  thousands ;  but  when 
particular  instances  come  under  your  observation,  they 
pain  you,  if  you  really  love  animals.    I  heartily  wish  that 
horses  could  be  dispensed  with  in  war,  and  some  sort  of 
steam-engine  used  instead,  if  it  were  possible.     In  the 
orders  given  by  Louis- Napoleon  at  the  opening  of  the 
campaign  of  1870,  one  detail  seemed  to  me  unnecessarily 
cruel.     Orderlies  were  told  not  to  hesitate  to  ride  their 
horses  to  death  (de  crever  leurs  montures).    It  is  certainly 
necessary  on  occasion,  when  the  fate  of  thousands  de- 
pends upon  the  speed  of  an  animal,  to  avail  ourselves  of 
that  noble  quality  by  which  it  will  give  its  last  breath  in 
devoted  obedience ;    but  soldiers  are  not  generally  so 
tender  that  they  need  to  be  encouraged  in  indiscriminate 
mercilessness.     That  glorious  poem  of  Browning's  would 
be  intolerable  to  our  humanity,  were  it  not  for  the  sweet 
touchep  of  mercy  at  the  end  : — 
'  By  Hasselt,  Dirck  groaned ;  and  cried  ^"oris,  "  Stay  spur ! 
Your  Roos  galloped  bravely,  the  fault's  not  in  her, 
We'll  remember  at  Aix"— for  one  heard  the  quick  wheeze 
Of  her  chest,  saw  the  stretched  neck,  and  staggering  knees, 
And  sunk  tail,  and  horrible  heave  of  the  flank, 
As  doivn  on  her  haunches  she  shuddered  and  sank.1  * 

*  For  intense  power  of  literary  workmanship  I  know  nothing  in  any 
language,  that  goes  beyond  those  lour  lines. 

J 


66  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 

So  we  were  left  galloping,  Joris  and  I, 

Past  Looz  and  past  Tongres,  no  cloud  in  the  sky ; 

The  broad  sun  above  laughed  a  pitiless  laugh, 

'Neath  our  feet  broke  the  brittle  bright  stubble,  like  chaff} 

Till  over  by  Dalhem  a  dome-spire  sprang  white, 

And  "Gallop,"  gasped  Joris,  "for  Aix  is  in  sight!" 

"  How  they'll  greet  us  !" — and  all  in  a  moment  his  roan 
Soiled  neck  and  croup  over,  lay  dead  as  a  stone  ; 
And  there  was  my  Roland  to  bear  the  whole  weight 
Of  the  news  which  alone  could  save  Aix  from  her  fate, 
With  his  nostrils  like  pits  full  of  blood  to  the  brim, 
And  with  circles  of  red  for  his  eye-sockets'  rim.1 

All  this  is  very  terrible,  and  would  be  almost  in  the 
spirit  of  the  Imperial  command  to  the  orderlies  to  crever 
leurs  montures ;  were  it  not  that  the  very  strength  of  the 
description  shows  how  much  the  poet  felt  for  the  suffering 
animals,  though  he  expresses  no  sympathy  directly.  But 
the  tenderness  of  the  man  capable  of  loving  a  good  horse 
is  reserved  entirely  for  the  last  two  stanzas,  where  it  is 
expressed  in  the  manliest  way,  yet  in  a  way  so  affecting 
that  no  noble-mmded  person  who  read  the  poem  aloud 
could  get  through  those  last  stanzas,  when  he  came  to 
them,  without  some  huskiness  of  emotion  in  the  voice, 
and,  perhaps,  just  -a  little  mistiness  in  the  eyes. 

'  Then  I  case  loose  my  buff  coat,  each  holster  let  fall, 

Shook  ojff  my  jack-boots,  let  go  belt  and  all, 

Stood  up  in  the  stirrup,  leaned,  patted  his  ear, 

Called  my  Roland  his  pet-name,  my  horse  without  peer  ; 

Clapped  my  hands,  laughed  and  sang,  any  noise,  bad  or  good, 

Till  at  length  into  Aix  lioland  galloped  and  stood. 


HORSES.  67 


And  all  I  remember  is,  friends  flocking  round, 

And  I  sat  with  his  head'twixt  my  knees,  on  the  ground; 

And  no  voice-but  was  praising  this  Roland  of  mine, 

As  I  poured  doion  his  throat  our  last  measure  of  wine, 

Which  (the  burgesses  voted  by  common  consent) 

Was  no  more  than  his  due  who  brought  good  news  from  Ghent.' 

This  is  the  ideal  of  the  relation  between  man  and  horse, — 
the  horse  serving  man  to  his  utmost,  lending  him  his  swift- 
ness with  a  perfect  good  will, — the  man  accepting  the 
service  for  a  noble  purpose,  doing  all  he  can  to  make  the 
work  lighter  for  his  servant,  and  at  last,  when  the  great 
effort  is  over,  caring  for  him  as  tenderly  and  anxiously  as 
if  he  were  a  brother  or  a  son.  This  is  the  ideal,  but  the 
reality  too  often  falls  short  of  it  on  both  sides.  There 
does  not  exist  in  the  minds  of  owners  of  horses  generally 
that  touch  of  romantic  sentiment  which  translates  itself  in 
affectionate  companionship  and  tender  care.  The  horse 
is  a  valuable  animal,  and  is>  on  the  whole,  looked  after 
fairly  well,  his  health  is  cared  for,  he  is  usually  well  fed, 
and  horses  used  for  private  purposes  are  seldom  over- 
worked. But  there  is  a  remarkable  absence  of  sentiment 
in  all  this,  which  is  proved  by  the  facility  with  which,  in 
most  European  countries,  men  sell  their  horses,  often  for 
bodily  infirmities  or  imperfections,  in  which  there  is  no 
question  of  temper,  and  especially  by  the  custom  of  selling 
a  horse  which  has  done  faithful  service,  merely  because 
he  is  getting  old  and  weaker  than  when  in  his  prime. 
This  last  custom  proves  the  absence  of  sentiment,  the 
more  completely  that  every  one  knows  when  selling  an 


68  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 

old  horse  that  he  is  dooming  him  to  harder  work  and 
worse  keep,  and  that  the  certain  fate  of  a  horse  which  we 
part  with  because  he  is  old,  is  a  descent  to  harder  and 
harder  conditions,  till  finally  he  is  worked  to  death  in  a 
cab,  or  in  a  cart  belonging  to  some  master  little  less 
miserable  than  himself. 

The  whole  subject  of  the  relation  between  the  horse 
and  his  master  depends  upon  the  customs  which  regulate 
our  life,  and  which  have  regulated  the  lives  of  our  fore- 
fathers, in  all  sorts  of  other  ways.  V7e  are  not  enough 
with  our  horses  to  educate  either  their  intelligence  or 
their  affections  ;  and  as  there  has  been  the  same  separa- 
tion in  preceding  centuries,  the  horse  has  inherited  a  way 
of  rega"ding  men  which  scarcely  tends  to  make  their 
relation  more  intimate.  There  are  a  few  exceptional 
cases  in  which  traces  of  affection  are  distinctly  perceptible 
in  horses,  but  by  far  the  greater  number  of  them  are 
either  indifferent,  or  decidedly  hostile  to  humanity.  Man 
loves  the  horse,  at  least  some  men  love  him,  from  feelings 
of  gratitude  and  pride.  When  your  horse  has  carried  you 
well  in  battle,  or  on  the  hunting-field,  you  are  grateful  to 
him  for  the  exercLj  of  his  strength  and  courage  in  your 
service ;  when  he  has  borne  you  majestically  on  some 
occasion  of  state,  or  enabled  you  to  display  the  grace, 
and  skill,  and  the  manly  beauty  of  your  person,  before 
the  admiring  eyes  of  ladies,  you  are  proud  of  him  as  a 
statue,  if  it  could  feel,  would  be  proud  of  the  magnifi- 
cence of  its  pedestal.  The  saddle  is  a  sort  of  throne  for 
man :  when  seated  there,  he  has  under  him  the  noblest 


HORSES.  69 


of  all  the  brutes,  so  that  he  may  be  said  to  sit  enthroned 
above  the  whole  animal  creation.  It  is  from  a  feeling  of 
the  royalty  of  that  position,  that  kings,  if  they  are  good 
riders,  always  prefer  to  enter  a  city  on  horseback,  when 
a  great  effect  is  to  be  produced  upon  the  minds  of  the 
people,  well  knowing  that  a  leathern  saddle,  simple  and 
hard  as  -it  is,  has  more  of  royal  dignity  than  the  silken 
cushions  of  the  gilded  coach  of  state.  An  incident 
occurred  lately  on  the  entry  of  King  Amadeus  into  Lerida, 
which  showed  him,  as  by  an  acted  simile,  in  the  charac- 
ter of  a  sovereign  whose  throne  is  not  stable,  yet  whose 
hand  is  firm.  A  shower  of  flowers  rained  from  a  trium- 
phal arch  as  the  Savoyard  king  rode  under  it,  and  his 
charger  plunged  so  violently  that  no  one  but  a  thorough 
horseman  could  have  kept  his  place.  All  the  peoples  of 
the  earth  like  their  kings  to  be  fine  horsemen,  and  the 
crowd  thought  that  in  his  tossing  saddle  Amadeus  came 
royally  into  Lerida ! 

Our  pride  in  horses,  our  admiration  of  their  beauty 
and  their  strength,  produce  in  us  a  certain  feeling  of 
attachment  to  them,  but  rarely  a  deep  affection.  The 
trouble  of  attending  to  the  wants  of  horses,  of  grooming 
and  feeding  them  at  stated  times,  can  rarely  be  under- 
taken by  the  owner  himself,  and  would  be  a  perpetual 
annoyance  to  him  unless  he  had  a  most  exceptional 
liking  for  the  animal,  so  as  to  be  always  happy  when 
about  the  stable,  as  schoolboys  are  when  the  first  ardent 
ffinnria  is  upon  them.  It  is  a  trouble  to  most  men  to  be 
even  obliged  to  exercise  a  horse  quite  regularly,  a  rich 


70  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 

man  likes  to  have  horses  at  his  door  when  he  wants 
them,  but  to  have  no  trouble  about  them  at  other  times, 
using  them  as  living  velocipedes,  and  thinking  no  more 
about  them  in  the  intervals  than  if  they  were  made  of 
well-painted  iron.  Hence,  there  comes  a  personage 
between  the  horse  and  his  master,  who  feeds,  cleans, 
gently  exercises  the  animal,  and  is  seen  and  heard  more 
frequently  by  him  in  the  course  of  one  week  than  his 
owner  is  in  a  month.  There  are  the  long  absences  of 
the  owner  also,  when  he  is  staying  in  other  people's 
houses,  or  travelling,  or  at  another  residence  of  his  where 
he  has  other  horses,  or  in  his  yacht  where  all  horses 
whatever  would  be  much  out  of  place.  The  owner,  then, 
from  the  horse's  point  of  view,  is  a  man  who  makes  his 
appearance  from  time  to  time  armed  with  a  whip  and  a 
pair  of  spurs,  gets  upon  the  horse's  back,  compels  him 
to  trot,  and  gallop,  and  jump  hedges,  and  then  suddenly 
disappears,  it  may  be  for  several  weeks.  The  two  lives 
are  so  widely  separated  that  there  hardly  can  be  any 
warm  affection.  If  the  horse  loves  any  one  it  is  more 
likely  to  be  the  groom  than  the  master,  "but  the  groom 
has  often  disagreeable  manners  (to  which  horses  are  ex- 
tremely sensitive),  and  in  some  houses  he  is  changed 
as  frequently  as  a  French  minister.  On  the  whole,  the 
horse  very  seldom  enjoys  fair  opportunities  for  attaching 
himseh  to  any  human  being.  It  would  be  inter- 
esting lor  a  true  d&iTrTror/xtoof,  a  rich  bachelor  (a  wife  would 
object  to  the  scheme),  to  live  permanently  in  a  large 
hall,  into  which  three  or  four  horses  of  a  race  already 


HORSES. 


intelligent  should  be  admitted  at  all  hours,  from  the  time 
they  were  foals,  just  as  dogs  are  in  a  bachelor's  room  in 
the  country.  They  should  not  be  tied  up,  but  freely 
allowed  to  walk  about  under  penalty  of  a  reprimand  if 
they  upset  the  furniture,  and  to  poke  their  noses  over 
their  master's  shoulder  when  he  was  reading  or  eating 
his  dinner,  during  which  they  should  have  a  lettuce,  or 
a  cabbage,  or  something  else  to  suit  their  tastes.  In  a 
word,  I  am  supposing  that  in  this  hippie  Utopia  the 
horses  should  be  treated  as  nearly  as  possible  like  dogs. 
It  would  be  highly  interesting  to  watch  the  effect  of  such 
a  continual  association  between  the  horse  and  his  master, 
and  still  more  interesting  if  it  could  be  kept  up  during 
several  generations.  The  powers  of  affection  in  the 
horse  are  for  the  most  part  latent.  We  see  faint  signs 
of  them,  and  there  is  a  general  belief  that  the  horse  has 
such  powers,  which  is  founded  partly  on  some  exceptional 
examples,  and  partly  on  a  subtle  satisfaction  in  believing 
that  we  are  beloved  by  our  slaves.  But  the  plain  truth 
is,  that  horses,  as  they  live  usually  in  our  service,  have 
little  to  love  us  for,  and  most  commonly  regard  us  either 
with  indifference  or  dislike.  The  slightest  demonstration 
of  attachment  wins  us  in  a  moment,  and  we  exaggerate 
it  because  it  flatters  our  amour  propre.  When  a  horse 
neighs  at  our  coming,  it  is  most  commonly  a  request  for 
corn,  and  some  of  his  other  demonstrations  are  very 
equivocal.  Some  men  tell  you  when  their  horses  set 
their  ears  back,  and  show  the  white  of  their  eye,  and  try 
to  bite,  and  kick  at  them  in  the  stable,  that  all  these 


72  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 

are  merely  signs  of  playful  affection.  In  short,  there  is 
a  distinct  passion  in  man's  heart  for  which  the  Greeks  had 
a  name,  but  which  in  England  we  call  the  love  of  horses, 
and  this  has  its  illusions  like  every  other  passion.  Know- 
ing this,  I  hardly  dare  venture  to  say  precisely  what  I 
think  about  the  horse,  but  a  well-known  French  saying 
is  applicable  to  his  case  :  En  amour,  I'un  des  deux  aime, 
et  rautre  se  laisse  aimer.  So  I  should  say  of  the  horse, 
il  se  laisse  aimer. 

When  we  come  to  the  active  vices,  the  hatred  and  re- 
bellion of  the  horse  against  his  master  express  them- 
selves very  plainly,  much  more  plainly  than  equine 
affection  expresses  itself  ever.  Many  of  these  vices  are 
hereditary  in  the  equine  blood,  are  a  tradition  of  ill-usage. 
The  way  in  which  they  burst  forth  in  horses,  apparently 
of  the  most  tranquil  character,  is  one  of  the  mysteries  of 
nature.  Three  instances  have  occurred  in  my  own  stable, 
of  animals  becoming  suddenly  and  irremediably  vicious, 
passing  in  the  course  of  three  or  four  days  from  a  state 
like  that  of  Paris  under  the  Empire  to  the  rage  and  re- 
bellion of  Paris  under  the  Commune,  and  neither  in  these 
cases,  nor  in  any  other  that  has  come  under  my  observa- 
tion, has  a  real  vice  ever  been  permanently  eradicated. 
Horses  become  vicious  from  many  causes ;  the  most 
frequent,  I  think,  is  idleness,  in  combination  with 
confinement  and  good  keep.  Out  at  grass  a  horse  be- 
comes wild  rather  than  vicious,  and  mere  wildness  is 
easily  curable  by  gentleness  and  patience.  Tied  up  in  a 
stable,  with  plenty  01  hay  and  corn,  his  system  accumu- 


mm 


HORSES.  73 


lates  the  electricity  of  irritability  which  ought  to  have 
been  regularly  expanded  in  work,  and  it  explodes  in 
dangerous  violence.  Four  days'  idleness  in  an  inn-stable, 
during  wet  weather,  cost  me  the  most  valuable  horse  I 
ever  possessed.  On  the  fifth  day  no  man  could  ride 
him,  and  no  man  was  ever  able  to  ride  him  afterwards.* 
A  black  Irish  horse,  who  served  me  well  during  a  year, 
and  was  an  excellent  leaper,  was  suddenly  lost  to  me  in 
the  same  way,  and  the  same  thing  occurred  with  a  power- 
ful Scotch  Galloway.  Most  men  who  have  had  some 
experience  of  horses  will  have  known  such  cases.  No 
form  of  disappointment  is  more  provoking.  The  ani- 
mal, after  vice  has  declared  itself,  seems  exactly  the 
same  creature  that  he  did  before.  Has  he  not  the  same 
limbs,  shape,  colour  ?  Is  not  the  spot  of  white  upon  his 
forehead  precisely  in  the  same  place  ?  Is  not  his  tail  of 
the  same  length  ?  Nothing  is  altered  that  the  eye  may 
detect,  but  there  is  the  same  change  that  there  is  in  a 
wine-bottle  when  somebody  has  poured  the  wine  out 
and  replaced  it  with  deadly  poison.  In  the  animal's 
brain  there  dwelt  a  spirit  that  was  your  most  faithful  ser- 
vant— your  most  humble  and  dutiful  friend ;  that  spirit 
is  gone,  and  instead  of  it  there  is  a  demon  who  is  deter- 
mined to  kill  you  whenever  an  opportunity  offers.  The 
Teutonic  legends  of  black  steeds  with  fiery  eyes  that 


»  I  begged  the  late  Lord  Hawke,  who  was  the  best  rider,  or  one  of  the 
three  best,  I  ever  knew,  to  make  a  trial  of  him,  but  the  results  were  the 
same  as  with  myself  and  the  rough-riders,  and  the  verdict,  "Nothing  to  be 
made  of  him." 


74  CHAPTERS  ON  4NIM4LS. 

were  possessed  by  evil  spirits,  are  no  more  than  the 
poetical  form  that  clothes  an  indubitable  truth.  The  na- 
ture of  the  horse  is  such  that  he  is  capable  of  endless 
irreconcilable  rage,  against  his  master,  and  against 
humanity, — a  temper  of  chronic  hate  and  rebellion  like 
that  of  Milton's  fallen  angels,  keeping  the  fierce  re- 
solve— 

'  To  wage  by  force  or  guile  eternal  war 
Irreconcilable.' 

If  there  is  anything  in  the  world  of  nature  that  seems 
clear,  morally,  it  is,  that  man  has  an  authentic  right  to 
require  reasonable  service  from  the  horse.  The  adapt- 
ation of  the  animal  to  labour  of  various  kinds,  the  use 
that  man  has  made  of  him  from  the  dawn  of  history,  are 
enough  to  prove  a  Divine  intention.  It  is  foolish  enough, 
I  know,  to  carry  speculation  about  Divine  intentions  far, 
because  slave-owners  might  speak,  and  have  spoken,  of 
obvious  Divine  intentions  in  their  favour ;  and  if  a  tiger 
ever  wasted  his  time  in  theological  controversy,  he  might 
prove  a  Divine  intention  in  favour  of  his  eating  English- 
men. However  this  may  be,  I  feel  perfectly  satisfied 
that  man  was  made  to  be  equestrian  (at  least,  a  certain 
proportion  of  mankind),  and  that  the  horse  was  made  to 
carry  him ;  and  with  this  conviction  I  have  no  hesitation 
in  making  the  horse  do  his  duty,  by  gentle  means,  if 
possible, — by  harsher  means,  if  necessary.  But  when  a 
horse  is  once  really  and  truly  possessed  by  a  devil, 
gentleness  is  of  no  use.  Then  come  the  great  combats, 
the  great  cruelties ;  and  the  more  cruel  you  are  the  more 


HORSES.  75 


does  the  creature  hate  you.  If  you  are  mild,  he  regards 
you  with  contempt ;  if  harsh,  with  ever-increasing  hatred. 
In  these  cases  there  is  no  medium,  and  it  is  only  men 
who  are  endowed  with  a  peculiar  physical  (perhaps  mag- 
netic) influence  over  horses,  who  can  effect  anything  like 
a  reconciliation. 

When  you  see,  however,  the  thousands  upon  thousands 
of  horses  which  do  their  duty,  on  the  whole  safely  and  well, 
in  London,  in  the  country,  in  the  army,  about  railway- 
stations,  breweries,  and  business  places  of  all  kinds,  you 
will  conclude  that  the  horse-demons  are  rare  in  propor- 
tion ;  and,  indeed,  happily  they  are'  so.  Most  horses  are 
fairly  good,  and  in  some  races  almost  all  of  them  are 
docile.  In  other  races  vices  of  different  kinds  are  very 
common.  Take  the  Corsican  ponies,  for  instance,  a 
hardy  little  race  of  much  speed  and  endurance,  very 
useful  to  drive  in  pairs  in  small  phaetons ;  they  are  nearly 
always  vicious,  though  seldom  vicious  enough  to  interfere 
materially  with  their  usefulness.  A  tiny  pair  were  offered 
me  with  a  pretty  carriage,  the  whole  equipage  suspicious- 
ly cheap,  but  I  discovered  that  one  of  the  charming  little 
creatures  would  kick  like  the  youthful  Tommy  Newcome 
in  Doyle's  sketch,  and  the  other  bit  like  a  wolf.  After- 
wards, I  found  that  these  accomplishments  were  common 
to  the  Corsican  breed  ;  in  fact,  that  they  were  generally 
as  energetic,  but  as  wilful  and  difficult  to  deal  with,  as 
their  little  human  compatriot,  Napoleon.  On  the  other 
hand,  there  are  breeds  where  gentle  tempers  and  amiable 
manners  are  hereditary. 


/6  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 

In  the  etchings  which  accompany  this  chapter,  Vey- 
rassat  has  given  us  the  horse  at  liberty  and  in  service. 
Both  plates  represent  very  happy  moments  of  equine  life, 
for  sweet  to  tl'.e  horse  are  the  Elysian  fields  of  liberty, 
and  sweet  also  the  hour  of  rest,  and  the  feed  by  the  way- 
side inn. 


77 


CHAPTER  V. 

HORSES  (continued}. 

THE  second  of  the  two  illustrations  which  accompany 
this  chapter,  representing  horses  on  a  battle-field,  has 
none  of  the  romantic  beauty  with  which  painters  have  so 
often  given  a  delusive  charm  to  subjects  of  a  like  nature ; 
but  the  ugliness  of  this  etching  (a  sort  of  ugliness  which 
is  quite  admissible  in  serious  art)  may  be  attributed  to 
strong  and  recent  impressions  received  by  the  artist  from 
the  reality  itself.  The  peaceful  inhabitants  of  London 
have  ideas  about  cavalry  horses  which  would  be  greatly 
modified  by  a  week's  experience  of  Continental  warfare. 
The  British  army  requires  few  horses  in  comparison  with 
the  vast  numbers  which  are  absorbed  by  the  forces  of 
Germany  or  France,  so  that  there  is  wider  latitude  for 
selection,  and  no  horse  which  has  the  honour  of  carrying 
a  British  soldier  is  ever  publicly  seen  in  his  native  land 
without  having  everything  that  can  affect  his  appearance 
entirely  in  his  favour.  The  man  who  rides  him,  though 
apparently  his  master,  is  in  reality  his  servant,  as  every 
youth  who  enters  the  ranks  of  a  cavalry  regiment  dis- 


78  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 

covers  when  his  young  illusions  fade.  All  the  things 
which  the  animal  has  to  carry  are,  by  the  craft  and  taste 
of  the  clever  equipment-makers,  turned  into  so  many 
ornaments ;  and  even  when  not  positively  beautiful  m 
themselves,  are  so  devised  as  to  enhance  the  martial 
effect,  and  make  you  feel  that  you  are  in  the  presence  of 
a  war-horse.  Bright  steel  and  brass,  in  forms  unused 
about  the  saddlery  of  civilians ;  furs  and  saddle-cloths, 
the  latter  decorated  with  lace  round  the  edges,  and  per- 
haps even  embroidery  in  the  corners  ;  a  luxury  of  straps 
and  chains,  a  massiveness  peculiarly  military ;  all  this 
strikes  the  civilian  imagination,  and  the  battle-steed,  even 
when  not  in  himself  a  particularly  perfect  animal,  has 
generally  a  noble  and  imposing  air.  All  his  belongings 
are  kept  so  clean  and  bright  that  we  respect  him  as  a 
member  of  the  aristocracy  of  horses.  He  is  brushed  and 
groomed  as  if  he  came  from  the  stables  of  a  prince.  To 
these  advantages  may  be  added  that  of  his  superior  edu- 
cation, which  tells  in  every  movement,  and  his  pride,  for 
he  is  proud  of  all  his  superiorities,  and  the  consciousness 
of  them  gives  grace  to  the  curve  of  his  neck,  and  fire  to 
his  eye,  and  dignity  to  his  disdainful  stepping. 

These  glories  of  the  war-horse  are  to  be  seen  in  their 
highest  perfection  in  that  prosperous  and  peaceful  capi- 
tal of  England  where  the  thunder  of  an  enemy's  cannon 
has  never  yet  been  heard.  The  English  household  troops 
are  the  ideal  cavalry,  good  in  service  on  the  field  of 
serious  conflict,  but  especially  and  peculiarly  admirable 
as  a  spectacle.  I  had  almost  written  that  the  poetry  of 


HORSES.  79 


warfare  was  to  be  best  seen  in  a  charge  of  the  Life-guards 
at  a  review,  but  there  is  a  yet  deeper  poetry  in  some  of 
war's  realities  where  the  element  of  beauty  is  not  so  con- 
spicuously present.  The  boy's  ideal  of  the  war-horse  is 
that  coal-black,  silken  coated  charger  that  bears  the 
helmeted  cuirassier,  and  all  those  glittering  arms  and  orna- 
ments dazzle  the  imagination  and  fill  the  martial  dreams 
of  youth.  Well,  it  is  very  fine,  very  beautiful,  and  we 
like  to  see  the  Royal  Guards  flashing  past  after  the  Court 
carriages;  but  last  winter  I  saw  another  sight,  and 
renounced  the  boy's  ideal. 

The  armies  of  Chanzy  had  been  defeated  on  the  Loire, 
and  their  broken  remnants  passed  as  they  could  to  join 
the  desperate  enterprise  of  Bourbaki  for  the  relief  of 
Belfort  In  the  depth  of  that  terrible  winter,  the  roads 
covered  with  snow,  with  a  bitter  wind  sweeping  across 
the  country  from  the  east,  and  every  water-fall  a  pillar  of 
massy  ice,  there  came  two  or  three  thousand  horsemen 
from  those  disastrous  battle-fields.  Slowly  they  passed 
over  the  hills  that  divide  the  eastern  from  the  western 
rivers,  an  irregular  procession  broken  by  great  intervals, 
so  that  we  always  thought  no  more  of  them  were  coming, 
yet  others  followed,  straggling  in  melancholy  groups. 
What  a  contrast  to  the  brilliance  of  a  review !  How 
different  from  the  marchings-past  when  the  Emperor  sat 
in  his  embroidery  on  the  Champ-de-Mars  and  the  glit- 
tering hosts  swept  before  him,  saluting  with  polished 
swords !  Ah,  these  horsemen  came  from  another  and  a 
bloodier  field  of  Mars ;  they  had  been  doing  the  rough 


8o  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 

work  of  the  war-god  and  bore  the  signs  of  it !  The  brass 
of  their  helmets  shone  no  more  than  the  dull  leopard-skin 
beneath  it,  the  lancers  had  poles  without  pennons,  the 
bits  and  stirrups  were  rusty,  and  the  horses  were  encum- 
bered with  tins  and  pans  for  rude  cookery,  and  bundles 
of  hay,  and  coarse  coverings  for  the  bitter  bivouac.  Here 
and  there  a  wearied  brute  was  led  slowly  by  a  merciful 
master ;  a  few  were  still  suffering  from  wounds,  all  were 
meagre  and  overworked,  not  one  had  been  groomed  for 
weeks.  Yet  here,  I  said,  as  the  weary  troops  passed  by, 
and  others  like  them  loomed  in  grey  masses  as  they 
approached  through  the  falling  snow, — here,  and  not  on 
the  brilliant  parade-ground,  now  in  this  busy  harvest- 
time  of  death,  not  then  in  the  lightness  of  their  leisure, 
are  the  battle-steeds  most  sublime !  All  the  fopperies  of 
soldiering  had  been  rubbed  away  by  the  rough  hand  of 
implacable  Necessity,  but  instead  of  them  what  a  mov- 
ing pathos  !  what  grandeur  of  patient  endurance  !  Gro- 
tesque they  all  were  certainly,  but  it  was  a  grotesqueness 
of  that  highest  kind  which  is  infinitely  and  irresistibly 
affecting.  The  women  laughed  at  those  sorry  brutes, 
those  meagre  Rosinantes,  and  at  the  wonderful  odd  figures 
that  sat  upon  them,  like  Quixotes  in  quilts,  riding  on  the 
wildest  of  expeditions  to  meet  starvation  under  the  dark 
Jura  pine-trees, — but  whilst  the  women  laughed  the  tears 
ran  down  their  cheeks.  And  here,  in  this  etching  of 
Veyrassat,  you  see  what  the  poor  creatures  were  going 
to,  and  how  at  last  they  were  permitted  to  take  their 
rest  Yes,  here  you  have  the  plain  truth  about  the  war- 


i 


HORSES.  8 1 


horse.  Veyrassat  has  not  represented  him  as  a  delica- 
tely-bred animal,  and  he  has  treated  his  saddlery  with  the 
most  complete  indifference.  This  comes  of  having  been 
recently  impressed  by  a  sight  of  the  reality.  Artists  who 
have  never  seen  war  are  usually  very  particular  about 
spots  of  light  on  stirrup  and  bit,  and  about  the  various 
inventions  of  the  military  clothier,  but  Veyrassat  has  told 
his  tale  very  plainly  by  the  expression  of  the  two  heads 
and  bodies,  the  dead  horse  lying  like,  what  he  is,  a  mere 
heap  of  unconscious  carrion,  the  wounded  one  vainly 
endeavouring  to  rise  and  neighing  to  his  departing  friends 
which  he  will  accompany  no  more.  Horses  feel  these 
separations  more  than  they  feel  any  separation  from 
human  friend  or  master,  so  that  this  is  a  touch  of  nature. 
A  dog  would  have  been  occupied  in  passionate  outbreaks 
of  lamentation  for  his  master  lying  stretched  there  on  the 
turf,  and  would  have  neither  followed,  nor  thought  of 
following,  any  living  being ;  but  the  horse  forms  his 
friendships  amongst  creatures  of  his  own  kind.  Not  to 
be  able  to  go  along  with  his  old  comrades,  to  be  fixed 
to  one  spot  of  turf  by  a  shattered  limb  whilst  they  are 
galloping  to  the  horizon,  must  be  the  most  cruel  pain 
that  this  creature  can  ever  suffer  in  his  sentiments  and 
affections. 

The  conspicuous  merit  of  the  horse,  which  has  given 
him  the  dearly-paid  honour  of  sharing  in  our  wars,  is  his 
capacity  for  being  disciplined, — and  a  very  great  capacity 
it  is,  a  very  noble  gift  indeed  ;  nobler  than  much  clever- 
ness. Several  animals  are  cleverer  than  the  horse  in  the 

'L 


82  -CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 

way  of  intelligence ;  not  one  is  so  amenable  to  discipline. 
He  is  not  -observant,  except  of  places;  not  nearly  so 
observant  as  half-a-dozen  other  animals  we  know.  His 
eye  never  fixes  itself  long  in  a  penetrating  gaze,  like  the 
mild,  wistful  watchfulness  of  the  dog,  or  the  steady  flame 
of  the  lion's  luminous  orbs,  but  he  can  listen  and  obey, 
and  his  acts  of  obedience  pass  easily  by  repetition  into 
fixed  habits,  so  that  you  never  have  to  teach  him  more 
than  one  thing  at  a  time.  The  way  to  educate  a  horse 
is  to  do  as  Franklin  did  in  the  formation  of  his  moral 
habits — that  is,  to  aim  at  one  perfection  at  once,  and 
afterwards,  when  that  has  become  easy  from  practice, 
and  formed  itself  into  a  habit,  to  try  for  some  other  per- 
fection. A  good  horse  never  forgets  your  lessons.  There 
are  unteachable  brutes  which  ought  to  be  handed  over  to 
rude  masters  and  rough  work,  but  every  horse  of  average 
intelligence  and  gentle  temper  may  be  very  highly 
educated  indeed.  Beyond  this  average  degree  of  teach- 
ableness there  are  exceptional  cases — the  horses  oi  genius; 
for  genius  (an  exceptional  vigour  and  intensity  oi  the 
mental  faculties  with  correspondingly  larger  powers  of 
acquisition)  exists  amongst  the  lower  animals  in  due 
degree  as  it  does  in  the  human  species.  A  few  animals 
of  this  remarkable  Segree  of  endowment  are  picked  up 
by  the  proprietors  of  circuses,  and  so  become  known  to 
the  public,  but  the  probability  is  that  a  much  larger  pro- 
portion remain  in  the  obscurity  of  ordinary  equine  life, 
and  that  their  gifts  escape  attention.  Most  of  us  have 
seen  remarkable  perlormances  o.  trained  horses.  The 


HORSES.  83 


most  remarkable  that  I  ever  saw  were  those  of  that 
wonderful  black  gelding  that  Pablo  Fanque  used  to  ride. 
There  can  be  no  doubt  that  he  had  pride  and  delight  in 
his  own  extraordinary  intelligence  and  perfect  education, 
just  as  some  great  poet  or  painter  may  delight  in  the 
richness  of  his  gifts  and  the  perfection  of  his  work.  But 
the  circus^  performance  is  not  the  ideal  aim  of  equine 
accomplishment.  One  would  not  care  much  to  have  a 
horse  that  would  dance  or  fire  a  pistol,  or  pick  up  a 
pocket-handkerchief,  yet  it  would  be  pleasant  to  have  in 
our  horses  the  degree  of  docility  and  intelligence  which 
circus-trainers  direct  to  these  vain  objects.  Many 
accomplishments  might  be  attained  that  would  be  valuable 
everywhere.  It  would  be  extremely  convenient  if  a 
horse  would  follow  you  without  being  pulled  by  halter  or 
bridle,  and  wait  for  you  in  one  place  without  being 
fastened.  A  man  who  had  travelled  amongst  the  Arabs 
told  me  that  he  had  seen  many  horses  that  would  stand 
where  they  were  left,  without  any  fastening,  and  some 
will  follow  you  like  a  dog.  A  great  deal  of  accomplish- 
ment may  go  into  the  ordinary  work  of  saddle  and 
carriage-horses,  and  almost  escape  notice  because  we 
think  it  only  natural.  But  how  wide  is  the  difference 
between  a  trained  horse  and  a  raw  one  !  How  slight  are 
the  indications  by  which  the  master  conveys  the  expres- 
sion of  his  will,  how  rapid  and  exact  the  apprehension ! 
With  horses  oi'  the  finest  organisation  this  apprehension 
rises  into  a  sympathy  above  the  necessity  for  any 
definite  command,  they  know  the  master's  will  by  a  sense 


CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 


of  faint  pressures,  of  limb  on  saddle,  of  hand  on  rein.  I 
used  to  ride  a  horse  which  would  go  on  trotting  so  long 
as  I  was  not  tired,  but  when  I  began  to  feel  fatigued  he 
walked,  knowing  by  my  altered  manner  of  rising  in  the 
saddle  that  rest  would  be  a  relief  to  me.  By  this  accurate 
interpretation  of  our  muscular  action,  even  when  it  is  so 
slight  as  to  be  imperceptible  to  the  eye  of  a  by-stander, 
the  horse  measures  the  skill,  the  strength,  the  resolution 
of  his  rider.  He  knows  at  once  whether  you  are  at  home 
in  the  saddle  or  not,  and  if  your  movements  do  not  cor- 
respond accurately  to  his  own,  he  is  aware  that  he  can 
take  liberties.  A  bad  rider  may  sometimes  deceive  the 
people  in  the  street,  but  it  may  be  doubted  whether  he 
ever  deceived  the  animal  under  him.  It  is  evident  that 
a  bad  rider  must  be  extremely  disagreeable  to  a  horse  of 
refined  feeling,  disagreeable  as  an  awkward  partner  in 
dancing  is  disagreeable.  The  intelligence  of  horses  is 
shown  in  nothing  so  much  as  in  their  different  behaviour 
under  different  men.  When  a  thorough  horseman  gets 
into  the  saddle  the  creature  he  mounts  is  aware  that  there 
are  the  strongest  reasons  for  behaving  himself  properly, 
and  it  is  only  the  mad  rebels  that  resist.  Not  only  can 
a  good  horseman  overcome  opposition  better  than  a  bad 
one,  but  he  has  much  less  opposition  to  overcome.  The 
very  best  horsemen,  amongst  gentlemen,  are  often  scarce- 
ly even  aware  of  the  real  difficulties  of  riding,  their  horses 
obey  them  so  well,  and  are  so  perfectly  suited  to  their 
work.  An  English  lady  who  rides  admirably,  told  me 
that  she  did  not  deserve  so  much  credit  as  she  got,  be- 


HORSES.  85 


cause  the  excellence  of  her  horses  made  riding  quite  easy 
for  her,  and  she  declared  that  even  in  her  boldest  leaps 
the  secousse  was  not  very  violent  ,  There  is  a  good  deal 
of  truth  in  this,  which  is  often  ove/looked.  The  relation 
between  horse  and  rider  is  mutual,  and  each  shows  the 
other  to  advantage. 

Whilst  on  this  subject  of  riding,  let  me  express  a  regret 
that  good  horsemanship  is  becoming  rarer  and  rarer  in  pro- 
portion to  the  numbers  of  the  population.  The  excellence 
of  modern  roads,  which  has  led  to  the  universal  em- 
ployment of  wheeled  carriages,  and  the  introduction  of 
railways,  which  are  now  used  by  all  classes  for  long  or 
rapid  journeys,  have  together  reduced  horsemanship,  in 
the  case  of  civilians,  to  the  rank  of  a  mere  amusement,  or 
an  exercise  for  the  benefit  of  health.  In  fact,  it  is  coming 
to  this,  that  nobody  but  rich  men  and  their  grooms  will 
know  how  to  ride  on  horseback;  whereas  in  former 
generations,  when  the  bad  roads  reduced  all  travelling  to 
an  alternative  between  riding  and  pedestrianism,  men  of 
all  degrees  and  conditions  went  on  horseback  for  consider- 
able distances,  and  became  skilful,  no  doubt,  in  proportion 
to  the  frequency  of  their  practice.  What  a  great  deal  of 
riding  there  is  in  the  Waverley  novels  !  Not  only  the 
baron  and  the  knight,  but  also  the  tradesman,  the  com- 
mercial traveller,  the  citizen  of  every  rank,  go  on  horse- 
back from  place  to  place.  How  much  healthy  and 
invigorating  exercise  the  men  of  our  generation  miss 
which  their  forefathers  frequently  enjoyed  !  Imagine  the 
benefit  to  a  manly  youth  of  the  last  century,  fastened  in 


86  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 

London  behind  a  counter  or  a  desk,  when  he  was  ordered 
to  ride  on  business  to  Lincoln,  or  York,  or  Edinburgh  ! 
He  had  before  him  weeks  of  the  manliest  life  a  human 
being  can  lead,  and  plenty  of  leisure,  as  he  sat  in  the 
saddle,  for  the  observation  of  men  and  nature.  There 
was  danger  enough  to  give  exercise  to  his  courage ;  and 
as  the  pistols  in  his  holsters  were  loaded  with  powder 
and  ball,  so  the  heart  in  his  breast  had  to  be  charged 
with  the  spirit  of  the  brave.  All  men  in  those  days  lived 
from  time  to  time  a  life  giving  them  some  brotherhood 
with  the  knights  of  the  days  of  chivalry.  A  London 
tradesman  riding  over  the  dark  heath,  robber-haunted, 
thinking  about  the  flints  of  his  big  pistols,  had  need  of  a 
portion  'of  that  manliness  which  in  other  times  had 
clothed  itself  in  knightly  harness  of  complete  steel 
Consider  the  difference  between  passing  a  fortnight  on 
horseback  and  a  night  in  a  railway  train — the  long 
breathing  of  fresh  air,  the  healthy  exercise,  the  delight- 
ful variety  of  scenery,  the  entertaining  change  and  ad- 
venture ;  and  then  the  seat  in  the  corner  of  a  railway 
carriage,  with  a  poisonously  impure  atmosphere,  and  a 
hot- water  tin  under  your  feet !  Whoever  heard  of  an 
equestrian  wanting  a  hot- water  tin  ?  An  ingenious 
French  saddler  invented  stirrups  with  lanterns  under 
them  for  night-travelling,  and  the  lanterns  heated  small 
foot-warmers,  but  his  invention  had  no  sale.  On  the 
other  hand,  you  really  cannot  do  without  a  foot- warmer 
in  a  carriage  when  the  thermometer  is  below  freezing- 
point.  This  marks  the  difference  01  the  two  as  to  exer- 


HORSES.  8; 


else.  Railway  travelling  is  fatiguing,  yet  it  is  not 
exercise.  It  wears  the  nervous  system,  but  does  not 
help  the  circulation  of  the  blood.  Horse  exercise  pro- 
duces effects  of  an  exactly  opposite  nature,  it  stimulates 
and  improves  the  circulation,  and  reposes  the  nervous 
system  better  than  anything  except  swimming..  Our 
forefathers  found  in  travel  a  double  corrective  for  the 
evils  of  a  sedentary  life,  and  they  had  the  additional 
advantage  of  not  being  able  to  go  far  without  spending 
a  good  deal  of  time  upon  the  road — days  and  weeks — 
during  which  the  system  had  full  leisure  to  recruit  itself. 
Too  many  of  them  were  senselessly  careless  about  health  ; 
they  ate  and  drank  a  great  deal  more  than  can  have  been 
good  for  them,  and  the  more  robust  had  little  notion  of 
moderation  in  anything :  yet  they  certainly  knew  less  of 
nervous  ailments  than  does  our  own  more  thoughtful 
and  scientific  generation.  Their  bad  roads  gave  them 
exercise,  as  their  badly-fitted  doors  and  windows  ensured 
them  an  efficient  ventilation.  We]may  still  imitate  them 
in  equestrian  tours ;  but  it  is  not  quite  the  same  thing, 
because  we  only  travel  in  this  way  for  pleasure,  that  is, 
when  we  take  a  holiday,  whereas  they  did  it  from 
necessity,  at  all  seasons  and  in  all  weathers. 

I  read  the  other  day,  in  a  book  written  for  students, 
that  walking,  and  not  riding,  is  the  best  exercise  ;  and  I 
knew  a  physician  who  said  he  only  recommended  horse 
exercise  because  his  patients  preferred  it.  On  this  point 
it  may  be  observed,  that  no  one  is  likely  to  get  much 
good  in  the  saddle  unless  he  has  the  true  equestrian  in- 


88  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 


stinct,  which  is  as  much  a  gift  of  nature  as  the  love  of 
aquatics.  Without  the  natural  instinct  you  cannot  feel 
the  peculiar  exhilaration  which  gladdens  the  born  horse- 
man and  relieves  him  from  that  burden  of  his  cares. 
There  is  an  exulting  sense  of  augmented  power  in  the 
breast  of  such  a  man  when  he  feels  that  all  the  strength 
and  swiftness  of  the  noble  animal  that  bears  him  have 
become  his  own  swiftness  and  his  own  strength  ;  that  he, 
who  but  a  moment  before  was  the  slowest  of  creatures, 
may  now  follow  the  wild  fox  and  the  antelope  ;  that,  if 
need  were,  he  could  traverse  three  horizons  in  a  day.  It 
is  this  pride  and  delight  of  horsemanship,  and  not  the 
mere  physical  exertion,  which  gladden  the  heart  of  man 
and  add  to  his  health  and  courage.  Can  any  sensation 
be  finer  than  that  of  a  good  rider,  well  mounted,  going 
across  country  at  full  speed  ?  Only  one  other  sensation 
is  comparable  to  it,  that  of  steering  a  lively  vessel  when 
the  mainsail  is  wet  with  spray,  and  the  sheet  is  straining 
tight,  and  the  topmast  bends  like  whalebone,  and  the  wind 
blows  fair  and  free  ! 

An  American  newspaper  lamented  not  long  ago  that 
rich  men  in  the  United  States  had  such  a  mania  for 
driving  that  they  had  thrown  the  saddle  aside.  The  same 
evil  may  be  observed  in  France,  and  is  even  perceptible 
in  England,  the  last  stronghold  of  noble  equestrianism. 
The  excellence  of  modern  roads,  and  the  perfection  of 
modern  carriage-building,  have  brought  about  this  re- 
sult. Thousands  of  men  own  horses  in  these  days  who 
never  bought  such  a  thing  as  a  saddle,  and  would  not 


HORSES.  89 


know  what  to  do  if  hoisted  into  one  ;  and  their  carriages 
are  so  very  luxurious  as  to  be  beneficial  to  nobody  but 
invalids.  There  are  three  classes  of  horse-owners — the 
men  who  can  ride,  the  men  who  can  drive,  and  lastly  the 
men  who  can  sit  still  and  be  driven  about  by  a  coachman. 
To  the  last  the  horse  is  purely  and  simply  a  locomotive, 
into  which  his  owner  puts  fuel  and  water  at  stated  times 
that  it  may  make  his  wheels  go  round.  The  drivers  take 
a  real  interest  in  horses,  and  often  show  great  courage 
and  attain  quite  a  surprising  skill.  Much  may  be  said  in 
favour  of  their  amusement,  which  has  a  fine  excitement 
of  its  own.  A  rider  commands  only  one  horse,  a  driver 
may  hold  four  in  his  hand  at  once ;  a  rider  hears  no 
sound  but  that  of  hoofs,  the  driver  hears  also  the  lively 
rumble  of  the  wheels,  and  feels  the  pleasant  springing  and 
swinging  of  the  well-built  vehicle  under  him.  The 
rider  serves  no  one  but  himself,  the  driver  has  an  agree- 
able sense  <  f  importance  when  the  drag  is  crowded  with 
fair  passengers  for  whose  safety  he  feels  himself  respon- 
sible. Our  modern  usages,  which  prohibit  splendid 
saddlery  to  civilians  and  have  made  all  ornamentation  of 
it  inconsistent  with  good  taste,  still  allow  some  splendour 
in  carriage-harness,  silver  crests  and  buckles,  and  other 
things  not  absolutely  necessary,  and  in  the  carriages 
themselves  there  are  displays  of  wealth  and  luxury  which 
could  never  be  concentrated  in  a  saddle.  When  a  rich 
man  has  a  taste  for  ostentation,  he  gratifies  it  more  easily 
in  carriages  than  in  saddle-horses.  When  a  poor  man 
has  five  children  and  one  horse,  the  beast  cannot  carry 

M 


9o 


CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 


the  whole  family  on  his  back,  but  he  can  easily  drag  it 
behind  him  in  a  four-wheeled  conveyance.  Even  a 
bachelor  who  keeps  only  one  horse  has  cogent  reasons 
for  preferring  harness.  A  saddle-horse  can  carry  his  own 
person,  but  his  owner  cannot  take  a  servant  with  him  nor 
offer  a  place  to  a  friend.  All  the  reasons  of  convenience 
(the  most  powerful  of  all  reasons  in  the  long  run)  are  on 
the  side  of  harness  in  every  country  where  the  roads  are 
good.  There  are  parts  of  France  where  it  is  already 
thought  an  eccentricity  to  ride  on  horseback,  and  where 
equestrians  are  so  rare  that  if  ever  one  makes  his  appear- 
ance the  children  stare  and  laugh,  and  the  grown-up 
people  smile,  as  they  would  at  a  man  on  stilts.  In 
neighbourhoods  of  that  kind  it  is  dangerous  to  a  man's 
reputation  for  gravity  to  be  seen  on  horseback,  and  men 
of  serious  pretensions  have  the  same  objection  to  the 
saddle  that  a  bishop  has  to  a  bicycle.  Hunting  and  war 
keep  up  the  art  of  riding  ;  without  them  it  would  be  in 
great  danger  of  going  out  altogether,  as  falconry  has  gone 
out,  to  be  revived,  like  falconry,  at  some  future  period  by 
a  few  persons  of  wealth  and  leisure,  as  a  curiosity  of  an- 
cestral custom. 

The  influence  of  the  turf  on  horses  and  on  horseman- 
ship deserves  more  thorough  investigation  than  these 
brief  chapters  would  permit.  It  does  little  or  no  good  to 
riding,  except  by  creating  a  special  professional  class 
with  quite  peculiar  professional  aims  ;  and  it  does  no 
good  whatever  to  the  breeding  of  horses,  except  by 
transmitting  the  capacity  for  great  speed  at  a  sudden 


HORSES. 


'  spurt,'  which  is  usually  purchased  at  the  cost  of  sub- 
stantial qualities  more  valuable  for  common  use.  Prac- 
tically, I  believe,  the  most  public  benefit  that  the  turf  has 
given  to  England  has  been  her  rapid  Hansoms.  They  are 
very  commonly  horsed,  directly  or  indirectly,  from  the 
turf,  and  the  swiftness  which  whirls  you  through  the 
interminable  streets  of  London  has  been  first  developed, 
either  in  the  horse  that  drags  you  or  in  some  ancestor  of 
his,  for  the  chance  of  a  triumph  at  Epsom,  or  Newmarket, 
or  Doncaster. 

The  turf,  as  it  is  followed,  is  not  really  an  equestrian 
recreation,  any  more  than  the  watching  of  hired  gladiators 
was  warfare.  The  swiftness  of  horses,  being  always 
various  and  always  having  elements  of  chance,  was  found 
to  be  a  convenient  subject  for  betting,  and  .the  excite- 
ment of  being  in  a  great  crowd  on  a  race  course  was  found 
to  be  agreeable  to  everybody  in  search  of  a  stimulus. 
Races  are  a  popular  institution  ;  vacant  minds  like  them  ; 
and  they  are  liked  also  as  an  amusement  by  some  minds 
too  distinguished  in  serious  pursuits  to  be  liable  to  any 
accusation  of  vacancy.  Yet  it  seems  probable  that  the 
truest  lover  of  horses  would  be  of  all  men  the  least  likely 
to  devote  himself  passionately  to  the  turf.  What,  to  him, 
could  be  the  pleasure  of  keeping  animals  to  be  trained 
and  ridden  by  paid  agents,  and  never  to  know  their 
master  ? 

The  influence  of  the  turf  upon  the  physical  perfection 
of  the  horse  has  not  been  favourable  to  his  beauty.  The 
race-horse  has  lost  the  beauty  of  nature  in  one  direction, 


92  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 

as  the  prize-pig  has  departed  from  it  in  another.  That 
which  his  forms  express  is  not  beauty,  but  culture.  You 
see  at  once  that  he  is  a  highly  artificial  product,  the 
creature  of  wealth  and  civilization.  Many  people  admire 
him  for  that,  because  there  is  an  inextricable  confusion 
in  the  popular  mind  between  ideas  of  beauty  and  ideas 
of  careful  cultivation.  The  race-horse  has  the  charms  of 
a  tail-coat,  of  a  trained  pear-tree,  of  all  such  superfine 
results  of  human  ingenuity,  but  he  has  lost  the  glory  of 
nature.  Look  at  his  straight  neck,  at  the  way  he  holds 
his  head,  at  his  eager,  anxious  eye,  often  irritable  and 
vicious  !  Breeders  for  the  turf  have  succeeded  in 
substituting  the  straight  line  for  the  curve,  as  the 
dominant  expressional  line,  a  sure  and  scientific  manner 
of  eradicating  the  elements  of  beauty.  No  real  artist 
would  ever  paint  race-horses  from  choice.  Good  artists 
have  occasionally  painted  them  for  money.  The  meagre 
limbs,  straight  lines,  and  shiny  coat,  have  slight  charms 
for  an  artist,  who  generally  chooses  either  what  is  beau- 
tiful or  what  is  picturesque,  and  the  race-horse  is  neither 
picturesque  nor  beautiful.  Imagine  what  would  become 
of  the  frieze  of  the  Parthenon  if  you  substituted  modern 
race-horses  for  those  admirable  little  chargers  the  Athe- 
nian loved  so  well  !  They  have  the  true  hippie  beauty  : 
fine  curves  everywhere  :  if  they  are  not  servile  copies  of 
pure  nature,  it  is  only  because  they  reach  a  still 
higher  fidelity  to  the  Divine  idea.  Yet  there  exists  a 
type  superior  even  to  the  noble  horse  of  Phidias.  In 
the  heart  of  Nejed,  where  the  long-pursed  unbeliever 


HORSES. 


93 


comes  not,  blooms  the  flower  of  equine  loveliness.  Who 
that  delights  in  horses  would  not  envy  Mr.  Palgrave 
his  sight  of  the  stables  of  Feysul,  the  royal  stables  of 
Nejed  ?  Ut  rosa  flos  florum,  so  are  those  the  stables  of 
stables  !  The  bold  traveller,  at  his  life's  hazard,  saw 
with  his  bodily  eyes  what  our  painters  see  only  in  their 
dreams  ! 

'  Never,'  he  wrote  afterwards,  '  never  had  I  seen  or 
imagined  so  lovely  a  collection.  Their  stature  was  indeed 
somewhat  low :  I  do  not  think  that  any  came  fully  up  to 
fifteen  hands;  fourteen  appeared  to  me  about  their 
average  ;  but  they  were  so  exquisitely  well  shaped,  that 
want  of  greater  size  seemed  hardly,  if  at  all,  a  defect 
Remarkably  full  in  the  haunches,  with  a  shoulder  of  a 
slope  so  elegant  as  to  make  one,  in  the  words  of  an  Arab 
poet,  go  "  raving  mad  about  it ;"  a  little,  a  very  little 
saddle-backed,  just  the  curve  which  indicates  springiness 
without  any  weakness;  a  head,  broad  above,  and  taper- 
ing down  to  a  nose  fine  enough  to  verify  the  phrase  of 
"  drinking  from  a  pint-pot " — did  pint-pots  exist  in 
Nejed ;  a  most  intelligent  and  yet  a  singularly  gentle 
look,  full  eye,  sharp,  thorn-like  little  ear ;  legs,  fore  and 
hind,  that  seemed  as  if  made  of  hammered  iron,  so  clean 
and  yet  so  well  twisted  with  sinew ;  a  neat  round  hoof, 
just  the  requisite  for  hard  ground ;  the  tail  set  on  or 
rather  thrown  out  at  a  perfect  arch ;  coats  smooth, 
shining,  and  light ;  the  mane  long,  but  not  over-grown 
nor  heavy;  and  an  air  and  step  that  seemed  to  say, 
"  Look  at  me,  am  I  not  pretty  ?  " — their  appearance 


94  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 

justified  all  reputation,  all  value,  all  poetry.  The  prevail- 
ing colour  was  chestnut  or  grey,  a  light  bay,  an  iron 
colour  ;  white  or  black  were  less  common ;  full  bay,  flea- 
bitten,  or  pie-bald,  none.  But  if  asked  what  are,  after 
all,  the  specially  distinctive  points  of  the  Nejdee  horse,  I 
should  reply — the  slope  of  the  shoulder,  the  extreme 
cleanness  of  the  shank,  and  the  full-rounded  haunch, 
though  every  other  part,  too,  has  a  perfection  and  a 
harmony  unwitnessed  (at  least  by  my  eyes)  anywhere 
else.' 

Even  the  Arabs  we  see  in  Europe,  however  inferior  to 
that  purest  breed  of  Nejed,  are  enough  to  make  clear  to 
us  what  the  Arabian  ideal  is.  That  it  is  the  central 
Divine  conception  of  horse-beauty,  I  think  no  artist 
doubts,  though  artists  often  prefer  other  races  from  affec- 
tion, or  because  their  own  art  is  more  picturesque  than 
beautiful.  Veyrassat,  for  instance,  who  can  etch  cart- 
horses as  nobody  else  can  etch  them,  has  never,  I 
believe,  cared  to  illustrate  the  more  graceful  breeds  that 
excite  the  enthusiasm  of  poets.  So  it  has  been  with 
Rosa  Bonheur,  and  the  whole,  picturesque  school  gene- 
rally ;  they  take  naturally  to  the  cart-horse,  whose 
massive  grandeur  satisfies  them.  Preferences  of  this 
kind,  in  the  practice  of  artists,  do  not,  however,  prove 
anything  against  the  supreme  beauty  of  the  Arab.  The 
best  painters  always  work  more  from  sympathy  and 
affection  than  from  admiration,  and  they  take  as  models, 
not  what  even  they  themselves  consider  most  beautiful, 
but  what  will  take  its  place  best  in  the  class  of  pictures 


HORSES.  95 


that  they  paint.  The  truth  is,  that  the  Arab  is  much  too 
beautiful  to  be  admissible  in  the  pictures  of  the  rustic 
schools;  he  would  spoil  everything  around  him, he  would 
be  as  much  out  of  place  as  a  Greek  statue  in  a  cottaje 
interior.  Even  the  Greek  horses  of  Phidias  are  too  noble 
to  be  ridden  by  cavaliers  not  endowed  with  the  full 
beauty  of,  the  human  body,  beautiful  strong  arms  to 
hold  the  restraining  bridle,  beautiful  strong  legs  to  press 
the  charger's  sides !  And  how  then  shall  you  paint  the 
daintily-exquisite  Arab  along  with  wooden-shod  Nor- 
mandy peasants,  and  fustian-breeched  Yorkshire  grooms? 
Where  shall  we  find  a  rider  worthy  of  him  ?  Not  the 
mean-looking  modern  Sultan,  going  cloaked  to  the 
Mosque  on  a  Friday ;  not  even  the  white-robed  Emir, 
ringed  by  a  host  of  spears  !  Far  in  the  distance  of  the 
past  rises  the  one  romantic  figure  worthy  to  mount  the 
perfect  Arab.  Rich  in  jewelled  caparison,  the  faultless 
horse  awaits  him  !  The  saddle  is  empty  as  yet,  and  its 
diamonds  flash  in  the  torchlight,  but  the  little  sharp  ears 
are  listening,  they  have  detected  the  step  of  the  master  ! 
There  is  a  movement  in  far  corridors,  the  golden  gates 
are  open.  Like  a  stream  that  glitters  in  moonlight,  the 
court  descends  the  stair  !  The  master  sits  in  the  saddle, 
the  proud  steed  steps  along  the  street ;  all  men  are  pro- 
strate before  the  Caliph. 

'  Sole  star  of  all  that  place  and  time 
I  see  him— in  his  golden  prime, 
The  good  Haroun  Alraschid  I ' 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  BOVINES. 

THE  patient  oxen  !  This  is  their  main  virtue,  patience. 
And  their  chief  gift  or  endowment  is  strength.  No 
animal  known  to  us  in  Western  Europe  has  patience 
comparable  to  that  of  the  ox,  and  for  vast  strength, 
steadily  exerted,  he  is  above  rivalry.  The  dray-horse  is 
as  strong,  but  he  does  not  possess  the  persistent  steadi- 
ness of  trained  oxen.  The  bovines  have  not  the  horse's 
irritability;  tl^eir  temper  is  very  calm,  slow  to  anger, 
and  of  infinite  endurance.  They  work  always  upon 
nature's  grand  old  principle  of  unhurried  but  untiring 
application,  pushing  on  always  with  pressure  equal  to 
their  task,  as  if  life  in  this  world  were  infinite  for  them, 
and  the  hours,  instead  of  flying,  walked  on  at  their  own 
slow  pace.  Better  servants  man  never  had,  and  not- 
withstanding their  slowness  they  achieve  enormous 
results. 

The  animals  which  work  for  us  show  their  character, 
as  men  do,  in  their  work ;  and  therefore,  in  speaking  of 
the  working  animals,  let  me  inquire,  first,  how  they 


THE  BOriNES.  97 


acquit  themselves  in  service.  The  time  when  these 
animals  are  grandest  is  not,  I  think,  their  idle  time  ;  not 
the  hours  they  pass  in  luxurious  indolence  at  summer 
noontide,  under  the  shade  of  widely-spreading  trees,  but 
their  moments  of  supreme  effort  in  harness,  dragging 
great  wains  home  in  the  late  evening,  when  the  sky 
is  charged  with  thunder  and  the  harvest  is  hastily 
garnered. 

It  has  always  seemed  inexplicable  to  me  that  oxen 
should  be  so  much  used  for  labour  in  one  country  and 
not  used  at  all  in  another  not  divided  from  it  by  any 
visible  line  of  demarcation,  and  that  this  usage  of  em- 
ploying oxen  in  agriculture  should  descend  traditionally 
in  some  places  and  not  spread  itself  in  other  places 
where  there  seems  to  be  no  reason  for  believing  that 
they  would  not  be  equally  useful.  I  can  only  suggest, 
as  a  possible  explanation,  that  in  some  regions  the 
breeds  are  better  adapted  for  labour  than  they  are  in 
others ;  though,  of  course,  there  would  be  the  obvious 
answer,  that  when  people  really  care  to  possess  any  kind 
of  animal  that  can  be  easily  acclimatised  in  their  land, 
they  take  the  trouble  to  import  it  I  imagine  that,  for 
agriculture  of  a  primitive  kind,  such  as  that  common  in 
the  regions  where  oxen  are  principally  used,  the  advan- 
tages of  employing  these  animals  or  horses  are  so  very 
nearly  and  nicely  balanced,  that  mere  habit  and  tradition 
will  settle  the  question  either  way ;  but  it  is  clear  that,  to 
very  small  farmers  indeed,  such  as  the  poor  peasant 
landowners  of  France,  there  is  a  gain  in  employing  oxen 

N 


98  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 

or  cows,  because  they  are  sure  to  have  some  animals  of 
that  kind,  whereas  a  horse  is  as  much  a  matter  of  sepa- 
rate acquisition  as  a  steam-engine.  It  is  very  possible 
that  prejudice  may  interfere  in  this  matter  as  it  does  in 
so  many  others,  even  against  pecuniary  interest;  and 
just  as  Europeans  have  been  in  the  habit  of  throwing 
away  an  incalculable  number  of  tons  of  excellent  animal 
food,  because  they  had  a  traditional  prejudice  against 
horse-flesh,  so,  on  the  other  hand,  may  they  have  gone 
on  rejecting  an  incalculable  amount  of  valuable  service 
because  they  had  a  traditional  idea  that  oxen  were  not 
intended  for  the  yoke.  They  are  used  in  some  out-of- 
the-way  corners  in  England,  but  I  have  never  seen  them 
used  there,  and  it  is  possible  that  most  of  our  English 
breeds  may  be  too  refined  and  delicate  to  be  efficient  in 
farm-labour ;  they  are  sometimes  exquisite  in  form,  but 
are  not  always  massive  enough  in  the  skeleton  for  very 
heavy  work.  In  countries,  however,  where  oxen  are 
commonly  employed,  there  is  little  hesitation  about 
using  rather  delicate  animals  ;  more  of  them  are  yoked, 
and  the  necessary  .amount  of  force  is  obtained.  The 
difference  of  custom  in  the  employment  of  oxen  cannot 
be  seen  in  a  more  striking  manner  than  by  visiting  two 
old  French  cities,  Sens  and  Autun,  each  on  a  market- 
day.  Of  the  fifteen  hundred  vehicles  that  go  to  the 
market  at  Sens,  not  one  is  drawn  by  oxen ;  or  if  there 
should  be  one,  it  is  a  chance  which  may  happen  twice  in 
a  twelvemonth.  At  Autun,  on  the  contrary,  you  will 
find  perhaps  a  thousand  pairs,  all  the  heavy  work  being 


THE  BOVINES.  99 


given  to  oxen  in  that  neighbourhood,  whilst  the  light 
work,  requiring  speed,  is  reserved  for  horses.  But  the 
line  of  demarcation  may  be  fixed  more  accurately  than 
that.  In  Eastern  France  that  line  is  the  vine-covered 
slope  of  the  Cote  d'Or  To  the  west  of  it  oxen  are  used 
constantly  ;  to  the  east  of  it  they  are  used  little  or  not  at 
all.  I  have  never  been  able  to  discover  any  reason  for 
this  except  a  traditional  custom.  The  oxen  are  in  this 
case  used  in  a  poorer,  and  the  horses  in  a  richer  district; 
but  it  would  be  unsafe  to  draw  any  general  inference  from 
that,  as  it  happens  sometimes  that  a  comparatively 
wealthy  country  will  use  oxen,  whilst  a  poorer  one  will 
be  as  faithful  to  horses  as  are  the  inhabitants  of  gold- 
accumulating  Manchester  or  Middlesex. 

These  animals,  though  not  of  quick  intelligence,  are 
very  easily  educated.  To  break  in  one  of  them,  the 
farmer  simply  takes  and  yokes  him  with  one  which  has 
seen  a  year  or  two  of  service.  The  novice  requires  special 
attention  during  the  first  day  or  two,  but  he  gradually 
gets  accustomed  to  his  duty,  and  comes  to  understand 
the  various  signs  and  sounds  by  which  the  will  of  his 
master  is  communicated  to  him.  As  his  temper  is  usually 
equable,  it  is  not  so  much  any  active  vice  that  has  to  be 
overcome  as  a  certain  slowness  of  understanding.  I  had 
almost  written  '  stupidity,'  but  that  would  be  scarcely 
just.  The  ox  is  not  really  stupid,  but  he  has  Saxon 
slowness,  which  is  a  different  thing.  When  a  pair  of  oxen 
are  to  be  educated  together,  as  it  is  sometimes  desirable 
that  they  should  be,  they  are  placed  in  a  team  of  six, 


ioo  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 

with  a  thoroughly  trained  pair  before  them  and  another 
in  their  rear.  At  first  they  get  dragged  by  those  in  front, 
or  tormented  by  the  horns  of  those  behind,  but  in  a  few 
days  they  work  steadily  enough  to  be  tried  in  a  cart  or 
waggon  by  themselves.  No  doubt  the  manner  of  ruling 
them  varies  in  different  countries,  that  which  I  know 
consists  of  a  certain  series  of  motions  with  the  goad,  includ- 
ing frequent  encouragements  with  the  voice.  To  direct  a 
pair  of  oxen  is  something  like  rowing  a  boat,  and  requires, 
in  its  way,  as  much  skill  and  science.  I  mean,  that  in 
using  the  goad  you  must  know  the  exact  effect  it  will 
have  upon  the  animal's  motions,  which  at  first  is  not  by 
any  means  easy.  A  gentleman  unaccustomed  to  this 
kind  of  driving  could  no  more  take  a  pair  of  oxen  through 
a  crowd  of  vehicles  than  a  peasant  could  take  an  outrig- 
ger from  Twickenham  to  Kew.  If  you  lay  the  wand 
gently  between  the  horns  of  one  of  your  oxen,  he  will 
follow  you  ,  but  unless  you  very  soon  do  as  much  for  the 
other  your  waggon  will  begin  to  turn,  because  the  other 
will  think  it  his  duty  to  hang  back.  If  you  want  to  turn 
rapidly,  you  strike  the  inner  ox  across  the  face  with  the 
wand  (as  gently  as  you  like,  it  is  a  mere  conventional 
sign  between  you  and  him),  and  laying  your  wand 
between  the  horns  of  the  outer  ox  make  him  follow  you. 
If  both  are  to  back  (and  you  can  make  them  back  a  con- 
siderable distance),  you  strike  both  across  the  face  repeat- 
edly and  somewhat  sharply.  The  peasants  of  the  Morvan 
and  the  Nivernais  always  call  their  oxen  by  special  names, 
and  as  the  beasts  know  their  names  as  well  as  dogs  do, 


THE  BOVINES. 


this  saves  much  use  of  the  goad.  A  man  will  drive  a 
team  of  six  almost  entirely  by  the  voice,  calling  to  each 
animal  by  his  name,  when  it  does  not  take  its'  full  share 
of  the  work,  or  in  any  other  way  needs  a  word  of  admo- 
nition. I  need  not  go  more  deeply  into  the  system  of 
signs  by  which  the  goad  is  made  to  convey  so  much  to 
the  bovine  mind,  as  it  is  scarcely  probable  that  the  reader 
will  ever  practically  require  any  knowledge  of  this  kind ; 
but  it  may  be  observed  generally,  that  pricking  an  ox  in 
one  part  of  his  body  and  pricking  him  in  another  do  not 
by  any  means  produce  the  same  consequences.  It  is  a 
system  of  signs,  a  language,  which  the  ox  perfectly  under- 
stands, and  if  you  use  it  without  understanding  it  you 
will  produce  unforeseen,  and  possibly  disastrous  effects, 
like  a  traveller  in  a  foreign  land  who  gives  orders  in 
words  whose  significance  he  has  not  thoroughly  mastered. 
When  the  day's  work  is  at  an  end  and  the  wearied 
teams  come  back  to  the  stable,  it  is  a  pretty  sight  to  see 
them  standing  in  pairs  together,  still  yoked,  though 
detached  from  the  waggon  or  the  plough.  In  a  farm 
where  the  oxen  are  properly  disciplined,  each  pair  will 
wait  in  their  place  until  the  farmer,  who  stands  at  the 
door  of  the  stable,  calls  for  them  in  their  turn.  Then  they 
march  forward  to  the  stable-door  and  bow  their  mighty 
necks  to  his  hand,  that  he  may  remove  the  yoke ;  and 
when  the  last  thong  is  unwound,  and  the  straw  cushions 
and  wooden  arches  are  taken  away,  they  lift  up  their  free 
heads  gladly,  and  each  one  goes  to  his  place.  Prettier 
still  is  their  perfect  submission  when  the  yoke  is  put  on 


102  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 


in  the  morning,  often  by  some  little  boy  scarcely  emerged 
from  childhood,  whom  yet  they  obey  with  an  elephantine 
meekness.  When  we  consider  how  frequently  oxen  are 
changed,  it  is  surprising  that  accidents  should  be  so  rare. 
It  is  inevitable  that  there  should  be  a  wide  difference 
of  opinion  between  artists  and  scientific  breeders  concern- 
ing the  beauty  of  the  bovine  races.  Indeed,  there  is  a 
confusion  in  the  employment  of  the  mere  word,  by  people 
who  do  not  mean  the  same  thing  by  it  If  you  breed 
cattle  with  a  view  to  the  dairy  or  the  butcher,  you  come 
to  regard  them  mainly  as  either  cheese-and-butter-pro- 
ducing  animals  or  else  beef-producing  animals,  and  then 
a  process  begins  to  operate  in  your  mind,  to  which  all 
human  minds  are  so  subject  that  the  wisest  of  them  can- 
not escape  it — the  process  of  perversion  of  judgment  on 
one  matter  by  association  of  ideas  with  another  matter. 
You  come  to  tolerate,  and  more  than  tolerate,  even  to 
approve  and  admire,  those  peculiarities  of  form  which 
are  associated  with  the  kind  of  productiveness  you  •\vish 
for,  till  finally  you  arrive  at  those  ideas  of  beauty  which 
prevail  in  the  engravings  on  inn-walls  in  very  advanced 
agricultural  counties  and  at  the  great  agricultural  shows. 
In  places  where  oxen  are  constantly  used  for  labour  there 
is  less  danger  of  this,  because  if  they  are  to  have  fine 
working  qualities  they  must  have  good  natural  shape — 
a  strong  bony  structure,  to  begin  with,  well-developed 
muscles,  and  little  superfluous  fat.  The  difference  between 
an  animal  of  this  kind  and  an  ox  bred  for  beef  is  very 
like  the  difference  between  an  active  young  Englishman 


THE  B OPINES.  103 


and  Daniel  Lambert,  who  may  be  still  remembered  by 
some  readers  as  the  fattest  man  of  his  generation.  It  is 
unnecessary  to  dwell  long  upon  this  difference  when  it  is 
so  strikingly  marked  as  it  is  in  the  case  of  the  animals 
which  win  prizes,  because  every  reader  having  artistic 
tastes  (and  one  who  had  not  would  not  read  an  essay  of 
this  kind)  sees  at  a  glance  that  such  animals  have  lost  all 
natural  beauty,  and  gained  in  exchange  for  it  nothing  but 
an  increased  value  as  material  for  the  food-market.  The 
real  clanger  in  this  and  many  other  things  like  it,  most 
peculiarly  and  especially  to  people  living  in  England,  is 
an  insensible  perversion  or  vitiation  of  sound  natural  taste 
by  the  continual  sight  of  types  which  are  not  monstrous 
enough  to  strike  the  eye  as  monstrosities,  but  are  half- 
way between  Nature  and  the  consummated  triumph  oi 
the  cattle-breeder.  England  is  an  intensely  artificial 
country  in  all  those  parts  of  it  which  are  cultivated  at  all, 
and  culture  of  all  kinds  is  carried  so  very  far,  always  in 
the  direction  of  material  increase,  that  it  is  difficult  to  get 
to  see  genuine  nature  there,  either  in  landscape  or  ani- 
mal beauty.*  In  a  word,  it  is  a  large  garden,  and  as 
botanists  tell  us  that  we  ought  not  to  study  botany  in 
gardens,  so  it  is  unwise  to  study  animal  form  where  it 
has  been  developed  on  the  principles  of  the  gardener. 
I  said  that  our  artificial  breeds  had  lost  all  natural 

•  Readers  who  happen  to  be  exceptionally  placed  may  demur  to 
this,  but  it  is  strictly  true  of  the  majority  of  English  counties.  The 
advance  of  scientific  agriculture  is  the  death  of  artistic  iuterest.  After  a 
railway  journey  through  England  Rosa  Bonheursaid,  '  Vovs  aveztuile 
pittwcxque.'  We  have  done  more,  we  have  killed  the  beautiful  also. 


104  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 


beauty,  not  having  space  just  then  to  make  the  neces- 
sary reserves.  But  there  is  an  important  natural  law 
with  reference  to  human  interference  which  cannot  be 
overlooked.  The  law  is  this.  Man  may  destroy  beauty 
of  form  in  living  plants  and  animals,  but  he  cannot  destroy 
all  those  minor  beauties  of  texture  and  surface  in  which 
nature  often  in  some  measure  seeks  a  compensation  for 
the  absence  of  nobler  perfections.  The  prize  cow  is  as  to 
shape  merely  a  collection  of  deformities ;  but  Nature 
gives  her  hide  a  beautiful  texture,  and  her  eyes  are  like 
dark  jewels,  only  better  rounded  and  polished  than  jewel 
ever  was.  So,  though  I  have  just  written  that  we  in 
England  have  killed,  not  only  the  picturesque,  as  Rosa 
Bonheur  said  we  had  done,  but  the  beautiful  also  ; — I 
meant  that  noble  form  of  the  beautiful  which  rules  the 
main  lines  of  things  when  Nature  has  her  way :  the  grand 
slopes  of  far-stretching  landscape,  unbroken  by  wall  or 
fence,  the  tufted  distances  of  boundless  forest,  and  the 
free  curves  of  the  unimpeded  stream.  Yet  there  still 
remains,  even  in  the  trimly-fenced  pasture  where  the 
sleek  beeves  are  feeding,  some  beauty  of  surface,  like  the 
beauty  of  their  own  hides — a  sleekness  in  the  green  hair 
of  the  well-groomed  land — not  ugly,  not  unpleasant  to 
the  sight  when  the  sun  gleams  out  upon  it,  and  the  cloud- 
shadows  give  the  only  variety  possible  to  it — that  of  soft 
and  tender  gradations.  But  even  in  this  beauty  which 
remains  to  us — this  mere  surface  beauty — there  is  a  great 
snare,  and  danger,  and  temptation.  Many  of  our  artists 
are  ruined  by  the  pursuit  of  it,  and  others  partially  vul- 


THE  B  OPINES.  105 


garised.  Sleekness  and  fat  are  always  dangerous  qualities 
for  an  artist  to  give  his  attention  to,  because  sleekness 
leads  to  a  kind  of  polish  which  introduces  some  confusion 
into  the  expression  of  the  form,  and  fat  conceals  the  bones 
and  muscles  on  which  the  expression  of  energy  depends.* 
The  finest  cattle  for  artistic  purposes  in  the  United 
Kingdom  are  the  little  Highland  breeds.  Rosa  Bonheur 
found  this  out  very  speedily  when  she  visited  Great 
Britain,  and  painted  them  with  great  enjoyment  and 
success.  Her  'Morning  in  the  Highlands'  and  'Scottish 
Raid '  have  one  source  of  interest  which  does  not  exist 
in  her  famous  'Ploughing'  picture:  I  mean,  that  of 
variety  in  colour.  In  many  breeds  of  cattle  one  colour 
seems  to  be  the  rule,  whilst  any  deviation  from  it  is  an 
exception.  For  example,  in  the  celebrated  and  most 
valuable  breed  for  working  purposes — the  charolais — 
almost  all  the  animals  are  of  a  creamy  white,  passing 
occasionally  into  delicate  shades  of  pale  brown,  but  never 
offering  any  striking  or  picturesque  contrasts.  Our 
Highland  cattle,  on  the  contrary,  are  marked  by  the  most 
striking  variety  ;  so  that  if  you  see  half-a-dozen  of  them 
together  in  a  Highland  foreground,  the  chances  are  there 
will  be  at  least  three  different  colours — a  red  beast,  a 
tawny  beast,  and  a  black  beast ;  and  there  is  nothing 
undecided  about  the  colours  either;  but  each  is  as  frank 
in  its  own  way  as  gules  and  sable  in  heraldry.  To  see  a 

•  So  in  wood-carving,  varnish  or  polish  of  any  kind  is  barbarous ;  but 
when  the  carving  itself  is  rude  it  may  be  varnished  with  advantage, 
because  then  the  glitter  partially  hides  the  Imperfection  of  the  work. 

O 


CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 


group  of  Highland  cattle  just  caught  by  the  level  rays  of 
sunrise,  when  the  cool  breeze  of  the  early  morning  is 
stirring  the  edges  of  their  curly  hair,  all  aflame  with  the 
first  splendour  of  the  day — when  the  black  bull  stands 
motionless  beside  his  fair  or  red  companions,  who  are 
glowing  like  images  of  pale  or  ruddy  gold — is  beyond 
comparison  the  most  effective  colour-combination  ever  to 
be  had  amongst  the  animals  of  Europe.  So  effective  is 
it  as  to  spoil  one's  eye  for  all  other  cattle,  whilst  the 
memory  of  it  remains  vivid.  What  are  the  dull  beasts  of 
the  south  to  us  who  have  seen  kine  standing  together,  of 
which  one  was  as  the  foam  of  the  sea,  another  like  leaves 
in  autumn,  and  a  third  like  blackest  night  ? 

And  not  only  for  their  colour  are  our  Highland  cattle 
dear  to  the  heart  of  the  artist,  but  for  the  uncommon 
grandeur  of  their  bearing.  Living  half- wild,  in  scenery 
which  is  altogether  wild,  often  exposed  to  the  fierce  blasts 
that  whiten  the  dark  lake,  and  toss  the  snow  in  wreaths 
over  the  edge  of  the  precipice,  they  have  acquired  after 
a  thousand  years  of  vigorous  resistance  to  the  hardships 
of  such  a  climate  a  certain  grandeur  of  manner,  far  re- 
moved from  the  sleepy  stupidity  that  chews  its  cud  by 
Dutch  canals  and  the  sedgy  watercourses  of  south- 
ern England.  They  must  have  some  tradition  amongst 
them,  I  think,  of  a  time  when  beasts  of  prey  roamed 
over  the  Highland  hills  more  terrible  than  the  fox  or  the 
wild- cat,  for  to  this  day  they  stand  prepared  for  the 
aggressor,  and  their  sentinels  snuff  the  air. 

The  influence  upon  human  character  of  association  with 


THE  BOriNES.  107 


different  species  of  animals  is  often  very  clearly  traceable. 
The  difference  between  the  French  peasant  and  the 
French  townsman  of  corresponding  social  rank,  which  is 
one  of  the  most  striking  contrasts  in  character  to  be  found 
anywhere  amongst  the  people  of  the  same  race,  is  due  in 
a  great  measure  to  the  constant  association  of  the  peasant 
with  his  oxen.  Oxen,  to  begin  with,  walk  a  good  deal 
more  slowly  than  men  are  generally  in  the  habit  of  doing; 
and  as  you  never  can  get  them  to  move  any  faster  for 
more  than  a  minute  together,  it  follows  that  their  driver 
must  walk  at  their  pace,  not  at  his  own.  Two  miles  an 
hour  is  their  speed,  and  when  you  have  got  into  the  fixed 
habit,  after  years  of  such  companionship,  of  sauntering 
along  at  two  miles  an  hour,  you  are  not  likely  ever  to  be 
particularly  brisk,  even  at  the  best  of  times.  The  French 
peasant  thus  becomes  habitually  a  slow  person,  not  in- 
dolent, but  so  remarkably  slow,  that  he  always  seems  to 
need  the  goad  as  much  as  his  own  oxen.  His  idea  about 
life  is  that  it  is  a  tune  to  be  played  in  adagio.  He  has 
no  notion  of  economising  time  by  getting  rapidly  through 
small  and  easy  duties  ;  in  fact,  he  considers  time  only  in 
very  large  spaces,  such  as  the  space  between  seed-time 
and  harvest,  or  that  between  the  feast  of  some  saint  in  the 
autumn  and  the  feast  of  some  other  saint  in  the  spring.  I 
.  doubt  if  he  knows  that  there  are  such  small  subdivisions 
as  minutes,  or  if  he  does,  he  thinks  about  them  no  more 
than  a  village  blacksmith  thinks  about  the  millionth  of  an 
inch.  In  all  this  he  is  the  exact  opposite  of  the  fussy, 
petulant  little  clerks  and  shopkeepers  in  the  town,  who 


io3  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 

are  never  really  happy  till  they  are  in  a  hurry  of  some 
sort,  either  genuine  or  fictitious,  and  who  order  about 
the  people  under  them  as  if  the  safety  of  the  uni- 
verse would  be  compromised  unless  they  accomplished 
some  utterly  insignificant  duty  with  the  celerity  of  a 
conjurer.  Nor  is  the  teaching  of  the  ox  altogether  un- 
profitable. A  certain  dull  wisdom  is  what  his  example 
inculcates,  and  I  would  rather  learn  in  his  school  than  in 
that  of  the  squirrel  or  the  monkey.  He  believes  hurry 
to  be  a  mistake,  and  will  not  fret  his  nervous  system  with 
petty  anxieties  about  doing  things  just  at  the  minute. 
He  knows  that  by  the  steady  pushing  of  his  mighty  head 
the  work  will  be  done  at  sunset,  and  if  not  just  at  sunset, 
then  an  hour  or  two  later,  in  the  twilight ;  and  what 
matter  ?  I  cannot  say  that  his  companionship  is  a  very 
strong  stimulus  to  intellectual  achievement  of  any  kind, 
but  he  can  give  what  many  of  us  need  much  more,  and 
that  is  calm.  Many  a  time,  when  vexed  or  over-excited 
by  labour  or  by  care,  I  have  gone  into  the  stable  near 
me  where  the  great  oxen  are,  and  spent  an  hour  or  two 
merely  looking  at  them,  or  drawing  them.  Gradually,  in 
their  society,  a  great  calm  steals  over  the  ruffled  nerves 
and  soothes  them,  and  it  seems  useless  to  vex  the  brain 
with  thinking  or  the  hand  with  toiling  after  skill.  In  this 
way,  although  oxen  are  not  yet  admitted  to  the  suffrage 
in  France,  it  may  be  quite  seriously  argued  that  they 
have  an  influence  over  the  votes,  and  a  great  deal  of  the 
success  of  moderate  candidates  is  due  to  it.  The  political 
opinions  of  the  ox,  if  we  may  judge  by  the  peasant  who 


THE  BO  VINES.  109 

speaks  for  him,  are  opposed  to  novelties  and  enthusiasms  of 
all  kinds,  being  steadily  conservative  and  monarchical. 
Sometimes  when  he  is  harnessed  with  a  young  skittish 
colt  in  front  of  him,  which  occasionally  happens  in  the 
rural  districts  of  France,  I  think  as  I  see  them,  what  a 
perfect  type  that  attelage  presents  of  the  political  state  of 
the  country.  '  Let  us  be  deliberate  and  moderate,'  says 
the  ox,  '  and  if  we  persevere,  all  necessary  work  will  get 
duly  done  in  time.' 

There  is  not  a  beast  of  the  bovine  species  more  to  be 
respected  than  the  poor  man's  cow.  Some  poor  old  man 
or  woman  invests  a  fortune  in  a  cow,  and  leads  the  animal 
to  pick  up  its  subsistence  in  the  ditches,  and  on  those 
sweet  irregular  little  patches  of  verdure  which  are  to  be 
found  in  the  country  lanes.  Now  if  an  animal  is  to  be 
esteemed  according  to  its  value  to  its  possessor,  what 
prize  bull,  what  winner  of  the  Derby,  is  so  precious  to 
humanity  as  the  meagre  cow  that  the  old  woman  guards 
on  the  lane-side  hour  after  hour  as  she  ceaselessly  spins 
from  her  distaff?  Meagre  the  cow  is,  indeed  ;  so  meagre 
that  you  can  study  anatomy  very  satisfactorily  by  observ- 
ing her,  all  the  bones  being  so  prominent  that  the  least 
observant  of  students  cannot  miss  them.  There  is  no  mis- 
taking the  position  of  the  ilium,  at  any  rate. 

In  writing  about  the  bovines  it  seems  as  if  it  would  be 
an  omission  not  to  speak  of  the  most  magnificent  ex- 
ample of  their  strength,  the  rage  and  fury  of  the  bull,  but 
in  these  papers  I  intend  to  confine  myself  pretty  strictly 
to  what  I  have  seen,  passing  only  with  the  most  rapid 


CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 


allusion  what  I  have  read  of  or  heard  about,  else  there 
would  be  no  end  to  the  subject.  Now,  I  never  saw  a  bull 
really  in  a  rage  except  once,  and  then  most  of  the  time, 
as  the  reader  will  see  presently,  I  necessarily  had  my 
back  to  him,  and  could  observe  very  little.  It  fell  out  in 
this  wise.  The  present  writer  was  descending  a  certain 
most  lovely  trout-stream,  in  his  canoe,  on  a  beautiful 
morning  in  June.  In  one  place  the  stream  passed  through 
a  great  park-like  pasture,  and  in  the  pasture  were  a  herd 
of  oxen  with  a  very  fine  tawny-coloured  bull.  This  bull 
took  offence  at  the  canoe  and  became  furious.  He  began 
by  galloping  alongside  and  bellowing,  but  afterwards 
dashed  into  the  stream.  Had  he  been  a  better  strategist, 
he  would  have  done  this  below  me  and  cut  off  my  retreat, 
but  the  road  was  open  before  me  and  I  paddled  for  dear 
life.  The  bull  got  on  astonishingly  fast,  though,  in  spite 
of  the  rough,  stony  river-bed.  The  water  may  have  been 
seven  inches  deep,  the  current,  luckily,  rapid,  but  great 
were  my  apprehensions  of  grounding,  for  had  I  once 
stuck  fast  my  enemy  would  have  been  upon  me.  At 
length  we  came  to  a  deep  pool,  with  a  quantity  of  snags. 
I  slipped  through  these,  but  they  stopped  the  bull,  who 
floundered  about  for  awhile,  and  by  the  time  he  got  to 
shore  again  I  was  safe  in  an  impenetrable  cover.  The 
reader  will  easily  understand  that  I  had  something  else  to 
think  of  than  making  artistic  observations.  And  the 
truth  is,  that  unless  an  artist  goes  to  Spain,  and  studies 
enraged  bulls  in  the  arena,  himself  in  safety,  he  has  not 
much  chance  of  painting  them  otherwise  than  from  imag- 


THE  £  OPINES. 


ination.  It  would  be  easy  to  launch  out  into  poetical 
accounts  of  smoking  nostrils,  and  bloodshot  fiery  eyes, 
and  furious  hoofs  that  tore  the  ground  ;  but  if  I  wrote  in 
that  strain  it  would  be  on  the  testimony  of  others. 

Cattle  have  been  associated  with  human  history  from 
the  very  beginning,  and  with  the  earliest  human  art,  but- 
if  one  attempted  to  trace  them  through  literature,  and 
sculpture,  and  painting,  there  would  be  no  end  to  it. 
Much  of  the  interest,  however,  with  which  educated 
people  look  upon  animals  which  have  long  served  the 
human  race  is  legendary  and  traditional.  I  never  see 
a  very  beautiful  white  heifer  without  thinking  of  an  an- 
tique sacrifice ;  and  when  a  noble  ox  passes  us — the 
noblest  in  the  herd — it  is  difficult  for  any  one  whose 
thoughts  revert  habitually  to  the  past  not  to  imagine 
him  with  gilded  horns,  garlanded,  and  led  towards  the 
altar  near  some  pillared  temple  under  the  blue  Grecian 
sky.  The  only  sight  of  this  kind  which  I  have  seen  or 
know  of  is  the  procession  of  the  fat  ox  at  Paris,  which,  I 
believe,  is  sacrificial  in  its  origin,  and  has  descended  as 
a  usage  after  its  first  purpose  has  been  long  forgotten. 
I  remember  the  huge  oxen  elevated  on  their  chariots, 
entering  slowly,  high  above  the  surging  populace,  the 
great  court  of  the  Carrousel.  Then  they  passed  close  to 
the  Tuileries,  and  stopped  before  the  balcony,  and  the 
Emperor  came  out  upon  the  balcony  with  his  beautiful 
wife  and  the  young  hope  of  his  dynasty,  and  the  people 
were  merry  and  shouted,  and  the  beautiful  Empress 
rmiled,  and  Cresar  looked  satisfied,  and  the  juvenile 


CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 


Cresar  laughed  outright,  and  all  was  joyous  and  gay  ! 
Times  are  changed  since  then.  In  this  month  of  January, 
1871,  neither  Emperor  nor  Empress  ever  comes  to  the 
balcony  of  the  Tuileries,  but  the  palace  is  full  of  wounded  ; 
and  no  fat  oxen  parade  the  streets,  but  the  people  have 
two  ounces  of  horseflesh  a-day,  and  are  devouring  cats 
and  rats !  * 

*  The  above  was  written  during  the  siege  of  Paris. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

ASSES. 

THE  world-renowned  City  of  Lyons  has  many  glories, 
— the  ever-renewed  marriage  of  the  Saone  and  the 
Rhone,  their  departure  together  for  the  far  Mediterra- 
nean, the  Imperial  street  that  Paris  envies,  the  great 
'  Ascension '  of  Perugino,  the  pilgrim-haunted  heights 
whence  our  Lady  of  Fourvieres  protects  her  faithful 
town,  and  looks  beyond  it  across  the  vast  and  verdant 
plain  to  the  snowy  heights  of  Savoy.  All  these  glories 
has  Lyons,  and  rich  fair  women  array  themselves  in  her 
splendid  tissues ;  those  tissues  that  the  sad-eyed  weavers 
weave  with  delicate  skilfullest  fingers,  till  they  are  softer 
than  English  mosses,  and  brighter  than  tropic  flowers. 

And  for  one  thing  more  does  Lyons  claim  our  admir- 
ation and  our  gratitude.  I  speak  not  now  of  the  arts 
which  appeal  to  the  eye  only,  but  of  an  artistic  product 
which,  though  lovely  indeed  to  the  sight,  is  grateful 
to  another  sense  also,  and  valuable  for  the  sustenance 
of  life.  In  section  like  dark-red  marble  dashed  with 
white,  it  may  be  cut  to  an  infinitesimal  thinness,  leaving 
a  surface  smoother  than  the  finest  veneers.  In  the  mass 

p 


1 1 4  CHAP  TER S  ON  ANIMALS. 

it  is  closely  wrapped  in  silvery  foil,  to  guard  against  the 
influences  of  the  air.  In  the  sweetest  associations  of  the 
memory  the  saucisson  has  its  place.  Weary  after  the 
morning's  march,  the  tourist  takes  it  from  his  knap- 
sack, and  lays  upon  his  bread  those  dainty  discs  which 
are  its  slices.  The  strength  of  his  youth  comes  back 
to  him,  and  the  Alpine  snows  no  longer  seem  inacces- 
sible. At  the  stateliest  Imperial  banquet  the  saucisson 
is  not  disdained.  At  the  pleasant  picnic  by  the  shady 
river  it  is  found  in  the  welcome  baskets.  The  angler  has 
it  in  his  bag,  the  shooter  in  his  capacious  pocket,  the 
canoist  in  his  Lilliputian  cabin  of  stores.  O  sattcisson 
de  Lyon,  sad  is  the  moment  when  we  cast  the  skinny 
remnant  of  thee  into  the  stream  ;  but  the  little  fishes 
congregate  eagerly  to  the  banquet,  and  ask  each  other 
what  noble  animal  has  yielded  his  flesh  for  their  feasting. 

What  animal  ?  That  which  Topffer  appreciated,  and 
Sterne  lamented,  and  Cervantes  gave  to  the  immortal 
Sancho ;  the  animal  whose  image  the  art  of  painting 
perpetually  reproduces.  In  the  choicest  galleries  of 
princes  you  shall  find  him  faithfully  portrayed,  and 
the  wittiest  and  wisest  of  authors  have  learned  phi- 
losophy in  his  presence.  No  exhibition  of  pictures 
would  be  complete  without  his  likeness,  and  the  very 
cleverest  of  painters  have  found  him  an  admirable 
model.  Even  mathematicians  have  not  forgotten  him, 
for  is  there  not  a  bridge  in  Euclid  which  bears  his 
honoured  name  ? 

It  may  seem  a  perverse  way  of  beginning  the  present 


4SSES.  1 1 5 


chapter  to  celebrate  the  excellence  of  the  sancisson  de 
Lyon,  which,  although  confessedly  made  of  donkey,  and 
raw  donkey,  is  nevertheless,  being  dead,  incapable  of 
exemplifying  the  beauties  of  the  asinine  character,  and  the 
superiorities  of  the  asinine  intellect.  Yet  in  this  exordium 
I  do  but  follow  the  practice  of  a  most  accomplished  master 
of  the  literary  art,  whose  articles  are  models  of  everything 
that  is  irreproachable  in  form.  Sainte-Beuve  acknow- 
ledged that  in  his  criticisms  he  always  began  by  saying 
what  could  be  said  favourably,  and  then  proceeded  to 
direct  attention,  very  delicately  and  gradually,  to  those 
limitations,  and  even  deficiencies,  which  necessarily 
accompany  great  qualities.  Of  the  ass,  when  living,  I 
could  not  conscientiously  say  much  that  is  wholly  favour- 
able, but  when  he  appears  in  the  state  of  sancisson  he  may 
be  praised  without  the  slightest  restriction.  De  mortnis  nil 
nisi  bonum,  especially  when  they  are  good  to  eat.  Whilst 
on  this  point  I  may  add  that  during  the  siege  of  Paris, 
when  the  flesh  of  all  animals  went  to  the  stewing-pans, 
and  even  the  menageries  were  discussed  gastronomically, 
the  palm  of  excellence  was  awarded  to  the  ass.  He 
appeared  on  the  tables  of  epicures,  he  figured  in  the 
'additions'  at  the  'Gilded  House/  atthe  'Three  Brothers.' 
Is  it  not  sad  that  he  never  knew  the  posthumous 
honours  that  awaited  him  ?  Ill-used  and  insulted  during 
life,  appreciated  only  after  death,  his  fate  resembled  that 
of  many  other  philosophers  whom  the  world  treated  un- 
kindly, and  those  odour  was  thought  to  be  sweetest  when 
their  voices  were  silenced  for  ever. 


n6  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 

It  may  seem  presumptuous  to  utter  a  novel  doctrine 
which  must  necessarily  imply  that  all  our  forefathers 
have  been  mistaken,  but  it  really  does  seem  as  if  the  whole 
human  race  had  misunderstood  the  uses  of  the  ass. 
His  flesh  was  so  compounded  by  the  chemistry  of  nature 
as  to  be  perfect  food  for  man,  but  his  brain  was  contrived 
with  such  bumps  of  obstinacy  and  resistance  that  he  is 
the  most  vexatious  of  all  our  servants.  He  ought  to  be 
permitted  to  enjoy  in  peace  that  purely  contemplative 
existence  for  which  his  character  is  adapted,  and  then,  be- 
fore his  fibre  hardens  by  age,  to  be  transferred,  as  pain- 
lessly as  possible,  to  the  cook.  Everything  in  his  be- 
haviour points  to  this — his  resistance  to  commands,  his 
resignation  to  suffering,  his  love  of  quite,  his  persistent 
objection  to  industry  of  all  kinds.  If  Balaam's  ass  spoke 
plainly,  do  not  other  asses  speak  plainly  also,  generation 
after  generation,  although  their  eloquence  is  wordless  ? 

It  is  popularly  said  that  the  ass  is  the  poor  man's 
horse,  and  that  Nature  in  her  bounty  has  given  him  this 
useful  and  uncomplaining  slave.  Then  the  donkey  is 
praised  for  his  sobriety,  for  his  patience,  for  his  strength, 
fortitude,  courage,  perseverance,  and  the  rest.  But  is  not 
the  poor  man's  horse  supplied  already  by  many  hardy  little 
races  of  ponies,  which  are  as  easily  kept  as  asses,  and 
much  more  easily  managed  ?  Surely  the  poor  man  has 
afflictions  enough  in  the  world  without  being  condemned 
to  suffer  from  the  plaguiness  of  asinine  perversity  ? 
Providence  never  compelled  the  human  race  to  attempt 
the  conquest  of  the  donkey.  Horses  were  provided  for 


JSSES.  117 


vis  in  the  utmost  possible  variety,  from  the  miniature 
Shetland  to  the  gigantic  English  hunter  ;  but  men  had 
an  idea  that  donkeys  must  be  useful  in  some  way,  and 
they  committed  the  fatal  error  of  riding  and  driving,  in- 
stead of  cooking  and  eating  them. 

The  use  of  donkeys  is  almost  as  much  a  matter  of 
fashion  as  the  use  of  oxen  in  labour.  In  one  country 
you  find  thousands  of  asses,  and  can  hardly  drive  for 
half  an  hour  on  a  main  road  without  meeting  a  proces- 
sion of  them  harnessed  to  light  little  carts  or  carriages  ; 
in  other  neighbourhoods  the  donkey  is  nearly  unknown. 
The  old  town  of  Bcaune,  in  the  Burgundy  wine-district, 
is  famous  for  the  multitude  of  its  donkeys,  and  the  sati- 
rical spirit  of  neighbouring  villages  has  called  the  land  of 
Beaune  le  pays  des  dues ;  with  some  reference,  it  is 
believed,  to  the  human  inhabitants  also.  On  the  other 
hand,  there  are  regions  where  the  absence  of  the  qua- 
druped would  afford  no  opportunity  for  a  sly  sarcasm  of 
this  kind.  Yet  there  are  poor  men  everywhere. 

It  happened  to  me  a  few  years  ago  that  a  certain 
member  of  my  household  had  an  unlucky  fancy  for  a 
donkey,  and  as  I  was  supposed  to  be  a  judge  of  horses  it 
was  unwarrantably  inferred  that  I  must  be  a  judge  of 
donkeys  also.  It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  observe,  that 
beyond  anatomical  resemblance  there  is  so  little  in  com- 
mon between  the  two  animals  that  a  far  more  experienced 
horse  -dealer  than  the  author  of  these  chapters  might 
commit  a  fatal  blunder  in  the  acquisition  of  an  ass.  How- 
ever, yielding  to  persuasion,  I  went  to  a  certain  fair  where 


n8  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 

the  asinine  race  was  sure  to  be  largely  and  worthily 
represented.  In  one  corner  of  the  great  public  square, 
under  shady  Oriental  plane-trees,  I  found  about  a  hun- 
dred animals  to  choose  from.  There  were  neat  little  grey 
ones,  scarcely  bigger  than  a  large  mastiff;  there^were 
ugly  middle-sized  ones  of  the  colour  of  amadou  ;  and 
there  were  handsome  big  ones  of  a  rich  dark  brown,  that 
a  cardinal  might  have  ridden  in  a  procession.  The  little 
ones  had  a  sharp  look,  and  bestirred  themselves  when 
they  were  touched  ;  but  it  seemed  impossible  that  their 
tiny  meagre  limbs  should  do  any  serious  work.  The 
middle-sized  breed  was  too  hideous,  although  one  old 
woman  used  her  utmost  eloquence  in  behalf  of  an  espe- 
cially ill-favoured  specimen  of  that  breed,  which  was  to 
be  sold  along  with  her  foal.  The  point  of  her  discourse 
was  the  advantage  of  hereditary  succession.  I  have  no 
doubt  the  old  woman  was  a  monarchist,  for  she  used 
the  well-known  monarchical  argument,  that  if  the  mature 
personage  be  not  of  much  value,  there  is  a  successor 
growing  up  by  his  side  on  whom  to  fix  our  hopes.  '  You 
see,  sir,'  she  went  on,  '  if  you  buy  a  donkey  all  by  itself, 
when  that  one  donkey  fails  you,  where  will  you  be  ? 
Reflect  a  little  on  the  numerous  accidents  and  dangers  to 
which  the  life  of  an  animal  is  ever  exposed  !  He  may  be 
taken  suddenly  ill ;  he  may  fall  into  a  hole  and  break  his 
leg ;  sooner  or  later  he  may  become  the  victim  of 
wasting  disease,  and  there  is  always  old  age  and  decre- 
pitude at  the  end  !  Against  all  these  evils,  this  beautiful 
young  foal  in  a  great  measure  guarantees  you.  In  pur- 


JSSES.  119 


chasing  both  animals  you  provide  not  only  for  the  present 
but  for  the  future  also.  L'anesse,' — the  scene  occurred 
in  France, — '  1'anesse,  c'est  le  present ;  mais  1'anon,  mon- 
sieur, cest  I'avenir  /' 

This  last  touch,  however  beautiful  as  a  climax,  was 
better  suited  to  a  Gallic  than  to  an  English  audience. 
The  previous  eloquence  had  enthralled  me,  but  the  final 
blow,  which  was  to  have  riveted  my  chains,  shattered 
them  and  delivered  me.  And  yet  I  might  have  done 
better  to  let  myself  be  persuaded,  and  give  heed  to  the 
counsels  of  the  aged,  even  though  not  wholly  desinte- 
rested.  At  a  distance  of  twenty  yards  stood  the  noblest- 
looking  donkey  in  the  fair ;  a  perfect  painter's  model, 
tall  as  a  Savoyard  mule,  with  a  superb  texture,  like  the 
texture  of  some  precious  fur :  and  a  deep  beautiful 
colour,  in  which  intense  dark  browns  and  purples  played 
together — a  colour  unknown  in  horses,  and  which  the 
horse,  with  all  his  superiorities,  has  never  equalled.  There 
was  an  artistic  touch  of  scarlet  ribbon  about  the  head,  and 
purest  white  about  the  muzzle,  to  finish  one  of  the  prettiest 
pictures  I  ever  beheld.  Even  the  long  ears  were  an 
ornament,  and  so  soft  and  agreeable  to  the  hand  that  it 
was  a  pleasure  to  caress  them. 

According  to  what  the  vendor  had  to  say  the  animal's 
character  was  as  lovely  as  his  exterior.  He  was  the 
sweetest-tempered,  the  most  docile  creature  man  ever 
possessed  ;  a  child  might  play  with  him  in  the  stable,  a 
girl  could  harness  and  drive  him.  Would  I  come  and 
see?  I  might  see  him  in  the  stable ;  I  might  drive  him 


CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 


myself  about  the  streets.  I  saw  him  in  his  stall,  a  little 
child  came  and  played  about  his  legs  ;  the  gentle  creature 
regarded  his  infant  friend  with  an  ey-e  as  mild  and  benig- 
nant as  it  was  beautiful.  A  little  maiden  came  and 
harnessed  him  to  a  cart.  I  took  the  reins  and  drove  about 
the  streets.  He  was  swifter  than  the  flight  of  summer, 
swifter  than  the  delights  of  youth  !  No  cruel  blows  were 
needed,  no  whip,  stick,  goad,  or  other  instrument  inflict- 
ing pain.  His  only  fault,  if  fault  it  were,  was  a  certain 
eagerness,  a  too  abundant  energy.  I  became  his  happy 
owner,  at  the  price  of  two  hundred  francs  without  harness. 
The  harness,  which  was  nearly  new,  I  paid  for  extra,  and 
at  its  full  value. 

Still  there  were  doubts,  and  if  I  had  known  donkeys 
as  well  then  as  I  do  now,  enlightened  by  a  painful  expe- 
rience, one  fact  alone  would  have  unsettled  me.  The  sun 
shone  in  all  his  glory  on  the  day  when  first  we  met,  the 
roads  were  clean  and  hard,  the  air  was  fresh  and  dry. 
A  donkey's  temper  is  closely  connected  with  the  baro- 
meter ;  he  is  comparatively  amiable  and  vivacious  when 
the  air  is  dry,  but  he  subsides  into  sullen  sluggishness 
under  the  influences  of  humidity.  As  to  the  state  of  the 
roads,  he  is  delicate  as  a  prettily-booted  lady.  Mud  is  his 
abomination  ;  he  cannot  endure  to  splash  himself,  and 
will  not  trot  on  muddy  macadam  till  compelled  by  the 
cruelty  of  his  driver.  Therefore,  to  try  a  donkey  with  a 
view  to  purchase,  it  is  wise  to  choose  bad  weather,  for 
then  you  will  see  all  his  faults  ;  but  if,  on  the  contrary, 
you  desire  to  sell,  exhibit  him  when  the  sun  is  bright  and 


4SSES. 


warm,  the  air  clear,  and  the  roads  in  the  best  possible 
order.  It  is  much  to  be  regretted  that  no  rule  of  this 
kind  has  hitherto  been  discovered  for  men's  guidance  in 
the  choice  of  a  wife.  How  greatly  would  the  hazards  of 
matrimony  be  reduced  if  young  ladies  would  be  good 
enough  to  display  quite  frankly  their  good  and  bad  tem- 
pers according  to  the  state  of  the  weather !  A  prudent 
lover  would  then  provide  himself  with  a  pocket  barome- 
ter, and  so  arrange  his  visits  as  to  study  in  turn  all  those 
varieties  of  disposition  which  at  present  he  finds  out  later, 
when  the  clergyman  has  done  his  work. 

Just  at  first  my  purchase  was  greatly  admired,  and  I 
felt  proud  of  his  size  and  beauty.  He  was  as  strong  as  a 
small  horse,  and  certainly  as  gentle  as  any  creature  could 
be.  But  one  day  the  baker,  who  had  possessed  a  hun- 
dred donkeys  in  his  time,  and  knew  the  animal  too  well 
to  be  deceived,  beheld  my  paragon,  and  shook  his  head 
with  mild,  compassionate  smiles.  '  That  donkey,  sir,'  he 
observed,  in  the  quiet  tone  of  a  master-critic,  '  that 
donkey  is  a  handsome  beast,  and  very  large  and  strong, 
but  his  proper  work  is  to  draw  a  laden  cart  at  a  walking 
pace.  He  never  was  meant  to  trot :  he  may  trot  now 
and  then  a  little,  but  never  in  a  regular  way.  What 
you  wanted  was  a  little  trotter,  and  the  smaller  they  are 
the  faster  they  go.' 

We  were  not  long  in  finding  a  suitable  name  for  our 
asinine  Adonis.  The  damp  weather  came  and  all  his 
energy  departed.  He  had  the  awkwardness  of  the 
elephant  without  his  intelligence,  the  slowness  of  the  ox 

Q 


CHAPTERS  ON  ^  XI  MA  IS. 


without  his  perseverance.  John  Bunyan,  in  England, 
would  have  called  him  Mr.  Go-to-sleep-on-his-legs ;  we 
christened  him  Dortdebout. 

Dortdebout,  or  Dordebou  in  the  abbreviated  form,  was 
a  perfect  model  or  type  of  a  breed  of  donkeys  which,  as 
the  baker  said,  are  useful  for  drawing  heavy  loads,  but 
not  to  be  relied  upon  for  trotting.  He  had  no  vice, 
except  a  perfectly  unconquerable  obstinacy.  He  was 
neither  irritable  nor  revengeful,  and  it  seemed  cruel  to 
use  him  harshly,  for  he  showed  no  trace  of  rancour.  A 
mild,  meek  creature,  incapable  of  malice,  he  gazed  at 
his  persecutors  with  soft  dark  eyes,  as  if  in  simple  wonder 
that  men  could  be  so  relentless.  After  receiving  a 
hundred  blows  he  would  make  a  feeble  attempt  at  kicking, 
but  this  never  went  any  further  than  a  perpendicular 
lifting  of  the  hind-quarters,  and  a  sudden  switching  of 
the  tail.  When  in  harness,  and  not  fully  convinced  of 
the  necessity  for  making  the  journey  that  lay  before  him, 
he  always  went  straight  to  the  ditch,  as  his  safest  place 
of  refuge :  but  he  did  not  lie  down,  as  many  of  his 
brethren  do,  and  he  never  broke  a  shaft  or  a  strap.  On 
a  muddy  road,  and  in  a  state  of  mental  aversion  from 
labour,  his  average  rate  of  progression  was  a  mile  and  a 
quarter  per  hour,  exactly ;  and  in  cold  rainy  weather  it 
was  his  delight  to  keep  his  persecutors  as  long  as  possible 
exposed  to  the  rigours  of  the  season.  Occasionally, 
however,  as  if  to  prove  that  his  slowness  arose  from  no 
constitutional  infirmity,  but  was  merely  the  effect  of  his 
own  good  pleasure,  Dordebou  would  rival  for  miles 


^ 


4SSES. 


together  the  swiftest  trotters  on  the  road.  Not  a  horse 
in  the  whole  neighbourhood  could  leave  him  behind,  in 
fair  trotting,  when  the  spirit  of  emulation  induced  him  to 
display  his  skill.  He  was  an  admirer  of  female  loveli- 
ness, both  in  his  own  race  and  in  horses,  and  whenever  a 
carriage  passed  which  was  drawn  by  an  animal  of  the 
gentle  se±.  Dordebou,  however  languid  and  tedious 
before,  became  suddenly  inspired  by  an  unshakable  reso- 
lution to  escort  that  carriage  to  the  very  end  of  its 
journey.  It  appeared  on  these  occasions  as  if  his  feet, 
like  those  of  Mercury,  had  been  endowed  with  wings  ; 
and  had  it  only  been  possible,  by  some  ingenious  optical 
arrangement,  to  project  the  visionary  image  of  a  female 
donkey  on  the  road  immediately  before  him,  ever 
advancing  as  he  advanced,  Dordebou  would  have 
astonished  the  world.  Thus  an  artist,  with  the  vision  of 
the  Ideal  ever  before  him,  surprises  by  the  energy  and 
rapidity  of  his  career  the  dull  laggards  to  whom  that 
ideal  is  invisible.  But  Dordebou,  alas  !  resembled  rather 
those  inferior  artists  who  have  only  occasional  glimpses  of 
the  Beautiful,  and  who  quickly  subside  into  habitual  inertia. 
It  is  several  years  since  I  had  the  honour  of  possessing 
Dordebou,  but  the  man  who  bought  him  from  me  keeps 
him  yet,  and  loves  him.  Dordebou  is  admirably  suited 
for  his  present  station  in  life.  He  draws  a  heavily-laden 
cart,  and  does  not  profess  to  be  a  trotter.  His  master 
walks  by  his  side  and  encourages  him  with  many  blows. 
I  meet  the  two  sometimes  and  caress  the  creature's  soft 
long  ears  for  the  sake  of '  auld  lang  syne.' 


1 24  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 


The  next  purchase  I  made  was  a  tiny  trotting  pheno- 
menon, about  the  height  of  a  table.  Harnessed  to  a 
very  light  carriage  she  was  pretty  enough  to  look  at;  and 
as  for  going,  I  never  saw  living  creature  go  with  such 
perfect  good  will.  The  impression  she  produced  on  the 
mind  was  exactly  that  of  a  toy  locomotive,  so  we  called 
her  Loco. 

Dear  little  Loco,  model  of  good  temper  and  cheerful 
performance  of  duty,  my  heart  softens  to  all  thy  race 
when  I  meditate  on  thy  perfections  !  The  animal  knew 
no  guile  ;  it  was  in  innocence  like  the  lamb,  in  swiftness 
like  the  gazelle.  Before  a  week  was  over  Loco  was  a 
household  pet  But  so  tiny  a  thing  as  she  was  could 
not,  with  all  her  good  will,  draw  more  than  a  very  light 
weight.  Her  carriage  was  a  toy,  and  if  more  than  one 
person  got  into  it  she  had  to  make  painful  efforts.  In- 
deed it  seemed  absurd  and  wrong  for  a  grown-up  man  to 
drive  such  a  wee  thing  at  all,  and  I  never  did  so  without 
conscious  shame.  The  ostler  at  my  accustomed  inn  is  a 
strong,  tall  fellow,  and  every  time  he  harnessed  Loco  it 
seemed  like  harnessing  a  sheep.  Then  the  carriage  was 
so  very  light  that  on  one  occasion  it  positively  upset, 
like  a  crank  canoe,  merely  because  I  sat  rather  too  much 
on  one  side.  On  the  other  hand,  although  the  best- 
tempered  thing  that  could  be,  Loco  was  quite  unfit  to  be 
driven  by  children,  on  account  of  her  irrepressible 
ardour.  So  soon  as  she  heard  your  foot  on  the  carriage- 
step  she  set  off  at  once,  with  a  trot  so  rapid  that  her  tiny 
legs  went  like  semi-quavers  in  a  presto.  We  compared 


JSSES.  125 


her  to  a  toy  locomotive,  and  the  comparison  would  be 
still  more  accurate  if  we  added,  that  when  the  steam  was 
once  turned  on  it  was  impossible  to  turn  it  off  again.  If 
you  met  an  intricate  crowd  of  carts,  occupying  (as  they 
always  awkwardly  do)  the  whole  breath  of  the  highway, 
Loco  would  not  slacken  her  pace  on  that  account,  but 
dashed  with  you  into  the  thick  of  them.  Her  theory  of 
the  division  of  labour  was  that  her  business  was  to  go, 
and  yours  to  find  the  passage  ;  so  that  you  were  con- 
stantly in  the  position  of  a  navigator  in  Arctic  seas, 
impelled  amongst  icebergs  by  an  impetuous  wind,  whose 
incessant  anxiety  is  to  find  an  opening  in  time.  Then  if 
you  wanted  to  stop  to  speak  with  any  one,  it  was  impos- 
sible. Nobody  could  stop  Loco  till  she  got  to  the  stable- 
door.  The  two  stable-doors,  that  at  the  inn  and  the 
other  at  home,  were  her  two  termini,  and  she  knew  no 
intermediate  stations. 

After  finding  a  new  and  good  home  for  Loco  my  per- 
sonal experience  as  a  donkey-proprietor  came  to  an  end, 
and  I  have  little  desire  to  extend  it.  It  is  simply  impos- 
sible to  ride  or  drive  the  ass  with  comfort.  It  would  be 
great  presumption  to  decide  about  the  character  of  an 
animal  after  studying  two  specimens  only,  but  it  has 
happened  to  me  to  make  acquaintance  with  many  others, 
and  I  have  never  yet  seen  the  donkey  which  could  be 
guided  easily  and  safely  through  an  intricate  crowd  of 
carriages  or  on  a  really  dangerous  road.  The  deficiency 
of  the  ass  may  be  expressed  in  a  single  word  ;  it  is  defi- 
ciency of  delicacy.  You  can  guide  a  good  horse  as 


126  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 

delicately  as  a  sailing-boat ;  when  the  skilful  driver  has 
an  inch  to  spare  he  is  perfectly  at  his  ease,  and  he  can 
twist  in  and  out  amongst  the  throng  of  vehicles  when  a 
momentary  display  of  self-will  in  the  animal  would  be 
the  cause  of  an  immediate  accident.  The  ass  appears  to 
be  incapable  of  any  delicate  discipline  of  this  kind.  He 
may  be  strong,  swift,  courageous,  entirely  free  from  any 
serious  vice,  but  he  is  always  in  a  greater  or  less  degree 
unmanageable.  When  he  is  really  vicious,  that  is  an- 
other matter.  There  is  no  end  to  his  inventions,  for  he 
is  quite  as  intelligent  as  the  horse,  and  a  thousand  times 
more  indifferent  to  man's  opinion  or  man's  punishment 
I  have  seen  a  donkey  feign  death  so  perfectly  as  to  take 
in  everybody  but  his  master,  who  had  been  too  often  a 
spectator  of  that  little  comedy.  '  Many  asses  are  danger- 
ous biters.  It  is  probable  that  the  idea  of  using  the  ass 
for  service  would  scarcely  have  occurred  to  any  modern 
nation  if  it  had  not  come  to  us  from  the  East.  In  hot 
sunshine  the  ass  is  at  his  best,  and  in  the  dry  atmosphere 
of  Palestine  or  Egypt  he  may  display  a  permanent  acti- 
vity. Besides,  in  those  countries  he  has  the  immense 
advantage  of  possessing  a  foil  to  set  off  such  merits  as  are 
really  his.  People  who  are  accustomed  to  the  camel,  the 
most  stupid  of  domesticated  brutes,  may  admire  the  ass 
by  contrast,  as  Sir  Samuel  Baker  did.  And  there  are 
races  of  Oriental  asses  far  superior  in  elegance  to  ours, 
and  superior  perhaps  in  delicacy  and  docility. 


127 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

PIGS. 

ALTHOUGH  in  every  country  the  upper  classes  fancy 
themselves  to  be  incomparably  more  refined  than  their 
humbler  brethren,  more  delicate  in  their  tastes,  and  espe- 
cially more  fastidious  in  their  invention  or  selection  of 
verbal  expression,  it  may  be  doubted  whether,  with  refer- 
ence to  the  valuable  animal  which  is  the  subject  of  the 
present  chapter,  the  aristocracy  of  any  country  upon 
earth  is  so  elegant  and  even  dainty  in  the  use  of  lan- 
guage as  the  ignorant  peasantry  of  France.  The  present 
chapter  will  doubtless  have  amongst  its  readers  many 
ladies  and  gentlemen  who  never,  from  the  beginning  of  a 
year  to  the  end  of  it,  do  or  say  anything  that  violates  such 
laws  of  good  taste  as  are  held  to  be  authoritative  in  the 
English  aristocracy  ;  and  yet  I  have  heard  English  ladies 
of  quite  august  rank  and  title,  and  of  the  most  delicate 
breeding  possible,  say  a  word  which  no  peasant-woman 
in  Burgundy  would  utter  unless  the  fury  of  uncontrollable 
anger  made  her  temporarily  forget  all  tradition  of  good 
manners.  I  have  heard  them  say  '  pig  !' 


128  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 

It  sounds  innocent  enough  in  English,  but  in  France 
most  people  think  it  better  to  avoid  the  corresponding 
word,  and  so  call  the  creature  a  'pork.'  The  peasants 
go  a  step  further,  and  avoid  not  only  the  word  which 
begins  with  a  c,  but  the  other  also.  In  their  different 
patois  they  have  names  for  the  animal  which  they  can 
use,  it  appears,  without  shocking  their  own  fastidious 
ears,  but  when  they  speak  pure  French  they  use  a  peri- 
phrasis of  quite  remarkable  elegance,  hitting  upon  the 
only  peculiarity  about  a  pig  which  reminds  one  of  gen- 
teel society.  They  call  him  un  habille-de-soie,  a  dressed- 
in-silk.  And  such  is  the  force  of  the  association  of  ideas, 
that  every  time  I  have  lately  seen  advertised  in  the  news- 
paper the  title  of  a  contemporary  work  of  fiction  '  In  Silk 
Attire'  it  has  conjured  up  in  my  imagination  the  vision 
of  a  large  fat  pig,  all  covered  with  beautiful  white  bristles 
shining  in  the  sun  like  those  wonderful  silken  tissues  that 
ladies  wear  or  long  for. 

This  careful  avoiding  of  the  French  word  for  pig  that 
begins  with  a  c  (the  reader  may  observe  that  I  dare  not 
even  write  it  myself,  though  I  hear  the  sound  of  it  in- 
wardly, which  is  almost  as  bad),  is  due  to  the  fact  that  it 
has  so  often  been  applied  to  men  of  improper  life.  For 
instance,  a  powerful  sovereign  walked  in  the  wood  with 
his  beautiful  partner,  and  they  met  a  child  so  lovely  that 
she  stopped  to  caress  it.  At  length  she  added,  '  This  is 
His  Majesty,  wilt  thou  also  kiss  His  Majesty  ?'  But  the 
child  made  answer  that  he  would  not,  '  parceque  Papa  dit 
que  c'est  un — '  dressed-in-silk.  And  this  is  the  way  that 


PIGS.  1 29 

the  character  of  a  truly  respectable  animal  has  been  de- 
graded in  popular  estimation. 

The  uncleanliness  of  '  the  silk-attired'  is  not  moral,  it 
is  merely  physical,  and  a  great  deal  is  to  be  said  in  pallia- 
tion of  it  The  brilliant  historian,  Michelet,  restored  his 
health  and  the  vivacity  of  his  genius  by  mud-baths,  which 
in  certain  cases,  are  strongly  recommended  by  the  faculty. 
The  reader  of  M.  Michelet's  later  productions  may  not  be 
aware  that  his  clear  and  sparkling  ideas  are  due  to  the 
practice  of  bathing  in  a  medium  so  foul  and  opaque  ;  and 
the  pig,  who  from  time  immemorial,  by  his  own  unaided 
intelligence,  without  the  advice  of  doctors,  has  cheerfully 
gone  through  the  same  treatment,  may  have  derived  from 
it  inestimable  benefits,  physical  and  intellectual.  Indeed, 
it  may  be  argued  that  the  pig's  delight  in  mud-baths  is 
really  caused,  not  by  love  of  dirt,  but  by  a  philosophical 
conception  and  aspiration  after  cleanliness,  which  makes 
him  indifferent  to  appearances  whilst  he  secures  the  rea- 
lity. In  the  absence  of  soap  the  cleanly  traveller  finds  a 
substitute  in  sand  and  clay,  and  so  it  is  with  the  inhabi- 
tants of  our  styes.  It  is  a  fact  that  pigs  are  generally 
much  less  infested  with  vermin  than  many  animals  which 
are  popularly  supposed  to  be  far  superior  to  them  in  the 
decencies  and  elegancies  of  life.  Mud  is  their  soap,  their 
worst  fault  being  that,  like  little  shiny-faced  grammar- 
boys,  they  too  often  forget  to  wash  the  soap  itself  away 
when  its  purifying  work  is  done.  It  must  also  be  admit- 
ted that  they  are  not  always  very  particular  in  the  choice 
of  the  soap  itself.  It  is  seldom  perfumed  ;  it  is  often  not 

R 


130  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 

even  pure.    On  the  other  hand,  it  is  right  to  mention  the 
well-known  peculiarity  of  the  pig,  that  he  is  much  less 
indifferent  than  the  horse  or  the  ox  to  the  condition  of 
his  bedding.     These  animals  have  no  more  objection  to 
manure  than  an  agriculturist,  but  the  pig  is  delicate  on 
this  point  in  his  own  habitation,   and  likes  to  keep  his 
bedding  decent.     It  is  evident  also,  that,  however  much 
we  may  differ  in  opinion  from  him  on  the  subject  of 
smells,  his  sense  of  scent  is  quite  as  exquisite  as  our  owr 
for  he  can  find  the  truffle  by  the  help  of  it  like  the  truffle 
hound,  and  is  regularly  trained  for  that  service — a  fact 
which  ought  to  ensure  him  the  grateful  esteem  of  gour- 
mands, since  not  only  does  he  himself  supply  some  of  tl 
best  of  animal  food,  but  also  by  the  perfection  of  hij 
organs  discovers  for  them  the  most  delicious  of  all  vege 
table  substances. 

The  habit  of  calling  him  '  the  silk-attired'  arose  froi 
a  feeling  of  respect,  not  so  much  towards  the  anil 
himself  as  towards  the  ears  of  polite  society.     But  as 
skilful  billiard-player  sometimes  aims  at  the  cushionet 
side   of  the   table    in    order  to  hit  the  balls  the  moi 
effectually,   many  names  have  been  applied  to  the 
without  any  intention   of  injuring  his  good  reputation, 
but  rather  with  ;a  view  of  creating  a  converse  associ- 
ation of  ideas  unfavourable  to  some  human  individual 
or  class.     It  is  a  very  common  practice  in   France  to 
call  donkeys  '  ministers,'  not  with  any  purpose  of  slight- 
ing the  Protestant  clergy,  .as  such  ;an  appellation  would 
certainly  be  interpreted  in  Scotland,  but  -as  a  satire 


wouia 
ire  on 


PIGS.  131 

the  gentlemen  who,  for  the  time  being,  hold  the  port- 
folios of  war,  agriculture,  public  instruction,  and  the  rest 
And  though  it  may  be  quite  contrary  to  the  rules  of  logic 
to  infer  that  because  some  donkeys  are  called  ministers, 
therefore  all  ministers  are  donkeys,  the  humorous  and 
habitually-rebellious  public  enjoys  a  pleasantry  which 
casts  a  disparaging  reflection  upon  those  in  authority 
over  it.  In  like  manner  a  certain  Count  relieved  himself 
to  some  extent  of  his  feelings  against  the  Government 
of  National  Defence  by  calling  one  of  his  pigs  '  Gam- 
betta,'  and  another  '  Monsieur  Favre,'  always  pro- 
nouncing the  title  Monsieur  with  well-feigned  ceremony 
and  respect.  Some  adopted  a  more  generally  inclusive 
system,  and  called  all  their  pigs  '  citizens  ' — a  satire  on 
red  republicans  which  may  not  be  very  dangerous  in  these 
comparatively  lukewarm  times,  but  which  in  the  first 
more  energetic  revolution  would  have  cost  the  satirist  his 
life.  A  man  was  guillotined  near  Autun,  in  the  year 
1793,  for  having  made  this  jest  in  a  less  offensive  form, 
since  he  did  not  elevate  his  pig  to  the  dignity  of  citizen- 
ship, but  a  favourite  dog,  his  beloved  friend  and 
companion.  In  times  before  modern  revolutionary  ideas 
were  thought  of  the  pig  was  not  unfrequently  resorted  to 
for  the  purpose  of  satirising  the  powers  that  were — even  the 
sacred  spiritual  powers.  Amongst  the  tales  of  the  Queen 
of  Navarre  there  is  a  story  of  two  Franciscan  monks,  which 
is  founded  on  this  popular  habit.  '  There  is  a  village,' 
wrote  her  Majesty,  '  between  Niort  and  Fors,  called  Grip, 
which  belongs  to  the  Lord  of  Fors.  It  happened  one  day 


132  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 

that  two  Franciscans,  coming  from  Niort,  arrived  very 
late  at  Grip,  and  lodged  in  the  house  of  a  butcher,  and 
seeing  that  between  their  chamber  and  that  of  the  host 
there  were  nothing  but  boards  badly  joined,  they  had  a 
mind  to  listen  to  what  the  husband  was  saying,  and  so 
put  their  ears  to  the  partition  close  to  his  bed's  head. 
'Wife,'  said  the  butcher,  'I  shall  have  to  get  up  very 
early  to-morrow  morning  to  go  and  see  our  Franciscans, 
for  one  of  them  is  very  fat,  and  that's  the  6ne  we  must 
kill.  We  will  salt  him  at  once,  and  he  will  be  profitable 
to  us.'  And  although  he  meant  his  pigs,  which  he  called 
Franciscans,  the  two  poor  monks,  who  had  overheard  this 
deliberation,  were  assured  that  it  referred  to  themselves, 
and  awaited  the  day's  dawn  in  fear  and  trembling.  One 
of  the  two  was  extremely  fat,  and  the  other  thin  ;  the  fat 
one  desired  to  confess  himself  to  his  companion,  saying, 
that  a  butcher  who  had  lost  the  love  and  fear  of  God 
would  knock  him  on  the  head  with  as  little  hesitation  as 
if  he  had  been  an  ox,  or  other  beast ;  and  seeing  that 
they  were  shut  up  in  their  room,  from  which  there  was 
no  issue  but  that  of  the  butcher,  they  might  consider 
themselves  sure  of  death,  and  recommend  their  souls  to 
Heaven.  But  the  young  one,  not  so  much  overcome 
with  fear  as  his  companion,  said,  that  since  the  door  was 
shut,  they  must  try  to  get  out  by  the  window,  and  seeing 
that  it  was  not  too  high,  leaped  down  lightly  and  fled  as 
fast  and  far  as  he  could  without  waiting  for  the  other. 
Instead  of  leaping,  the  fat  one  fell  heavily,  and  hurt  his 
leg.  Seeing  himself  abandoned,  and  unable  to  follow,  he 


PIGS.  133 

looked  about  him  for  a  hiding-place,  and  saw  nothing  but 
a  pig-stye,  whither  he  dragged  himself  as  well  as  he  was 
able.  Opening  the  door  of  the  stye,  he  let  out  two  great 
swine,  and  took  their  place,  and  shut  the  little  door  behind 
him,  in  hopes  that  when  he  heard  some  passers-by  he 
might  call  to  them  for  help.  But  so  soon  as  morning 
came,  the  butcher  sharpened  his  great  knives  and  came 
to  the  stye,  and  cried  aloud  in  opening  the  little  door, 
'  Come  out,  my  Franciscans ;  come  out ;  it's  to-day  that 
I  shall  have  your  black-puddings  ! '  The  Franciscan,  not 
being  able  to  stand  upright  on  account  of  his  wounded 
leg,  came  out  of  the  stye  on  all-fours,  begging  for  mercy 
as  loudly  as  he  could.  And  if  the  poor  Franciscan  was 
in  great  fear,  the  butcher  and  his  wife  were  not  less  so, 
for  they  believed  that  Saint  Francis  was  angry  at  them 
for  having  called  a  beast  a  Franciscan,  and  fell  down  on 
their  knees  before  the  poor  friar,  asking  pardon  from 
Saint  Francis.  At  last  the  friar,  perceiving  that  the 
butcher  would  do  him  no  harm,  told  him  the  reason  why 
he  had  hidden  himself  in  the  stye,  whereby  their  fears 
were  converted  into  merriment.'  Her  Majesty  goes  on 
to  narrate,  in  the  most  circumstantial  manner,  that  the 
other  friar  fled  all  night  long,  and  arrived  at  the  Castle  of 
Fors,  where  he  lodged  evidence  against  the  butcher; 
whereupon  the  Seigneur  of  Fors  sent  to  Grip  to  ascertain 
the  truth,  which  being  known,  he  told  the  story  to  his 
mistress,  the  Duchess  of  Angouleme,  '  mother  of  King 
Francis,  first  of  the  name.'  From  all  these  details,  the 
locality,  too,  being  given  (you  will  find  the  village  of 


1 3 4  CHAP  TER S  ON  ANIMALS. 

Grip  in  any  good  map  of  France,  in  the  department  of 
the  Two  Sevres),  it  may  be  presumed  that  the  incident 
was  not  invented  by  the  royal  narrator,  though  artistically 
recounted  by  her,  and  possibly  a  little  embellished.  The 
retreat  of-the  Franciscan  into  the  pig-stye,  and  the  scene 
of  his  discovery  there,'  are  probably  '  unhistorical,1  as 
modern  criticism  has  it.  But  historical  or  not,  it  is  a 
good  story,  and  the  indulgent  reader  will  pardon  the  in- 
troduction of  it  here.  Je  croy  qu'il  riy  a  ny  sages  ny  fols 
qui  se  sceussent  garder  de  rire  de  ceste  histoire. 

Yet  how  good  soever  the  story  may  be  the  reader 
seeking  instruction  concerning  pigs  may  reasonably  com- 
plain of  me  that,  like  a  certain  Franciscan  ' phis  enlangage 
que  docte,'  who  told  tales  in  the  pulpit  instead  of  edifying 
his  hearers,  I  am  wasting  time  in  vain  discourse.  There- 
fore let  me  hasten  to  prove  how  eminent  must  be  the 
intellectual  *  and  moral  capacities  of  the  pig.  An  animal 
which  was  the  chosen  friend  and  companion  of  one  of 
the  most  respectable  of  saints,  a  saint  especially  famous 
for  his  steadfast  resistance  to  temptation,  Saint  Anthony, 
can  scarcely  be  unfit  society  for  any  Christian.  It  is  on 
record,  too,  that  when  the  demons  tempted  the  good 
saint  they  plagued  his  pig  at  the  same  time,  catching 
it  by  the  tail,  and  playing  it  many  other  evil  tricks,  yet 

»  As  to  his  Intellectual  qualities  we  know  that  there  have  been  several 
instances  of  clever  pigs  exhibited  in  shows,  pigs  of  genius,  which  had  been 
taught  to  distinguish  letters  and  cards.  However,  I  never  met  with  one 
of  these  animals,  and  have  not  an  authentic  account  of  one  at  hand.  The 
phenomenon  of  genius  (marvellously  exceptional  endowment)  occurs 
probably  in  many  races  of  animals. 


PIGS.  135 

the  pig  remained  faithful  to  his  saintly  master  notwith- 
standing the  remarkable  inconveniences  of  such  associ- 
ation. The  demons  singed  him  whilst  yet  alive,  and 
they  made  a  horrible  ring-dance  with  the  pig  in  the 
middle,  compelling  Saint  Anthony  to  exercise  himself  as 
one  of  the  dancers : — 

'  Faisons-le  danser  en  rond 
Tout  autour  de  son  cochon  !  ' 

No  doubt  Saint  Anthony  loved  his  pig  with  an 
affection  far  more  honourable  to  both  parties  than  the 
love  which  men  commonly  bear  towards  '  the  silk- 
attired.'  As  an  illustration  of  the  latter  and  less  ennobling 
sentiment,  I  may  mention  a  capital  picture  by  Marks,  in 
which  that  charming  and  original  artist,  with  the  quaint 
humour  which  is  peculiarly  his  own,  depicted  a  scene 
which  he  was  pleased  to  entitle  '  Thoughts  of  Christmas.' 
A  monk  wandering  amidst  great  boles  of  ancient  trees 
stops  to  gaze  upon  a  herd  of  swine,  rapidly  fattening, 
and  in  the  anticipatory  expression  of  his  countenance  we 
read  Christmas  thoughts  of  a  character  rather  gastronom- 
ical  than  religious.  The  way  in  which  people  look  at  and 
talked  about  swine,  so  exclusively  from  that  monk's  point 
of  view,  as  if  the  sole  end  of  their  existence  were  to  be 
eaten,  is  peculiarly  repugnant  to  a  student  of  animal 
character,  and  would  be  equally  unpleasant  to  the  pig 
himself  could  he  understand  the  conversations  which  are 
so  commonly  held  in  his  presence.  Saint  Anthony,  no 
doubt,  could  have  told  us  many  things  concerning  his 


136  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 


pig  beyond  the  simple  facts  of  his  age  and  weight,  which 
are  all  that  farmers  and  housekeepers  seem  to  care  about. 
Saint  Anthony  would  have  enlightened  us  as  to  the  pig's 
ideas,  sentiments,  affections,  and  we  should  have  had  a 
true  portrait,  drawn  from  long  companionship  and 
familiarity,  not  of  the  pig  in  general,  which  anybody 
may  describe  in  a  rough  way,  but  of  an  individual  por- 
cine character  which  had  no  doubt  its  own  delicate  traits 
and  interesting  peculiarities.  Do  you  suppose  that  the 
saint  could  ever  think  of  his  pig  as  so  many  pounds  of 
ham,  bacon,  sausage,  brawn,  lard,  black-pudding,  and  the 
rest  ?  No,  Saint  Anthony  was  not  a  cannibal  ;  he  never 
thought  of  putting  his  friend  into  a  flesh-pot,  and,  though 
having  always  at  his  side  the  living  materials  of  a  feast, 
he  fed  like  a  true  hermit  on  innocent  fruits  and  fair 
water  : 

'  And  they  loved  one  another 

Like  sister  and  brother. 

Wasn't  it  better  to  do  so  ? ' 

The  unfeeling'  heartlessness  of  housekeepers  is  well 
exemplified  in  the  ferocious  joy  with  which  they  anti- 
cipate a  pig-killing.  Mr.  Marks  could  give  his  monk 
a  speaking  expression,  but  he  could  not  make  him 
actually  talk  as  you  may  hear  housekeepers  talk.  Some 
of  them  even  go  so  far  as  to  declare  their  intention  of 
'  killing  half  a  pig'  next  winter.  Now  what  instance 
of  cruelty  to  animals  can  be  matched  with  this  ?  It 
conjures  up  the  most  horrible  images,  like  the  phan- 
toms of  a  ghastly  dream.  Which  half  of  the  pig  is 


PIGS.  137 

to  be  killed,  and  which  to  be  left  alive  ?  How  is  the 
animal  to  be  bisected  so  as  to  cause  the  least  amount 
of  torture  to  the  half  which  must  live  and  suffer  ?  If 
this  is  horrible,  the  murder  of  a  whole  pig,  as  usually 
practised,  is  scarcely  less  so.  The  day  of  his  death  is 
a  day  of  light  merriment  and  jesting.  He  utters  the 
most  piteous  cries,  but  no  man  regards  him.  He  is 
taken  for  the  last  time  from  his  little  home,  his  stye,  and 
cruelly  bound  till  he  cannot  stir  one  of  his  limbs.  And 
then  the  great  knife  is  sharpened,  the  murderer  feels 
its  edge,  smiling  grimly,  the  idle  servant-maids  look  on, 
gloating  over  the  spectacle,  the  knife  is  plunged  through 
many  an  inch  of  fat  and  flesh,  the  red  blood  spirts 
and  gushes  and  is  caught  by  sanguinary  beings,  with 
horrid  eagerness,  for  their  own  devouring  !  After  the 
sharp  pain  comes  the  deadly  languor,  after  the  cries 
of  despair  the  silence  of  dissolution.  Then  the  jesting 
of  the  bystanders  seems  louder,  and  they  singe  '  the 
silk-attired '  with  flaming  straw,  or  scrape  and  shave 
him  till  his  body  is  like  a  curate's  chin  on  Sunday 
morning.  And  now  that  he  is  dead  is  he  not  truly  a 
benefactor  to  humanity  ?  Every  atom  of  him  is  good 
for  food.  His  body  is  so  valuable  that  it  pays  all  his 
debts,  all  the  long  account  that  has  been  gradually 
accumulating  against  him.  Nay,  there  is  even  a  con- 
siderable balance  in  his  favour,  and  he  bequeaths  to 
his  murderer  a  legacy  of  silver  and  gold.  The  idlest 
and  most  gluttonous  of  pigs  need  never  fear  that  the 
stain  of  insolvency  will  attach  to  his  memory  after 


138  CHAPTERS  ON  4NIMALS. 

death,  in  which  he  has  an  immense  superiority  over 
anxious  and  improvident  men.  If  his  creditor  ever 
reminded  him  how  costly  was  the  gratification  of 
that  fine  appetite  of  his,  he  might  answer  '  habeas 
corpus,'  and  go  on  stuffing  himself  with  a  clear  con- 
science. 

Amongst  many  odd  and  ludicrous  incidents  which 
relieved  the  long  tragedy  of  the  Franco -German  war, 
I  may  mention  the  quite  novel  and  remarkable  honours 
which  in  some  instances  were  paid  to  the  mortal  remains 
of  '  the  silk-attired.'  The  German  soldiers,  whose  powers 
of  digestion  would  have  excited  unqualified  admiration 
if  they  had  not  at  the  same  time  been  the  terror  of  all 
economical  housekeepers,  had  an  especial  taste  for  pig 
in  all  the  various  forms  which  the  art  of  the  pork- 
butcher  has  invented.  It  became  therefore  a  question 
which  taxed  the  utmost  ingenuity  of  the  French,  how 
to  keep  their  pigs  for  home  consumption  after  the  de- 
parture of  the  devouring  enemy.  A  lady  whom  I  know 
conceived  the  idea  of  placing  her  pig  under  the  pro- 
tection of  the  Blessed  Virgin,  which  she  successfully 
contrived  as  follows  : — First  she  killed  it,  and  then, 
having  salted  the  meat,  put  it  in  barrels  which  she 
interred  in  a  corner  of  her  garden.  After  that  she 
invested  a  small  sum  in  the  purchase  of  a  plaster  Virgin. 
and  erected  a  rustic  altar  above  the  spot  where  piggy 
slept  in  peace.  Behind  the  altar  the  gardener  arranged 
some  pretty  rock-work  with  moss  on  it,  on  a  niche 
whereon  the  Holy  Virgin  was  honourably  installed.  The 


PIGS.  1 39 

invaders  came;  they  probed  the  garden  everywhere  with 
iron  rods — everywhere  except  in  that  sacred  corner  which 
the  holy  image  effectually  guarded.  '  It  is  here  that  I 
pray,'  said  the  lady,  looking  most  pious,  and  the  simple 
Germans  respected  the  place  of  her  devotions.  A  pig- 
owner  in  another  department  went  a  little  farther  even 
than  that,  for  he  laid  out  '  the  silk-attired '  on  the  best 
bed  in  the  house,  and  covered  it  with  white  sheets  with 
such  art  that  the  body  presented  quite  the  appearance 
of  a  defunct  fat  Frenchwoman.  Round  the  bed  he 
placed  lighted  candles,  and  by  the  side  of  it  grave- 
faced  watchers  in  the  deepest  mourning.  The  Prussian 
soldiers  made  themselves  at  home  in  the  other  rooms, 
but  they  respected  the  chamber  of  death,  and  as  their 
stay  was  short,  much  bacon  was  economised  by  this 
stratagem. 

A  hideous  custom  used  to  prevail  in  many  places,  by 
which  sucking-pigs  were  roasted  whole  and  served  at 
table  without  disguise.  I  knew  a  country  gentleman  who, 
being  blessed  with  a  fine  litter  of  fourteen,  sold  them  to 
fourteen  different  friends  of  his  (he  had  many  friends), 
with  the  condition  in  each  case  that  he  should  be  invited 
to  dinner  when  the  animal  was  to  be  eaten,  a  condition 
willingly  accepted  by  the  purchaser.  It  was  not,  how- 
ever, from  a  love  of  sucking  pig,  but  from  a  love  of 
society  that  this  ingenious  conception  originated. 

Other  charms  than  gastronomical  ones  have  been 
discovered  in  young  pigs  by  those  who  have  occasionally 
made  pets  of  them.  The  animal,  though  obstinate  and 


140  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 

self-willed,  is  really  not  stupid,  and  is  capable  of  the 
warmest  attachment,  and  of  great  fidelity  to  those  he 
loves.  All  young  animals  are  interesting,  but  young  pigs 
are  more  comical  in  one  respect  than  kids,  or  lambs,  or 
kittens,  or  puppies ;  I  mean,  in  the  ludicrous  combina- 
tion of  heavy  structure  with  immense  activity  and  preci- 
pitation. They  are  prudent  in  an  advance,  but  they 
always  lose  their  wits  in  a  retreat,  and  on  any  decided 
alarm  they  hurry  away  in  a  general  sauve  qu i  pent.  In 
maturer  years  an  obstinate  courage  frequently  developes 
itself,  and  they  charge  with  such  force  that  a  man  cannot 
resist  them  without  using  deadly  weapons.  I  remember 
trying  to  get  a  pig  over  a  bridge  ;  we  were  three  men 
against  him,  all  armed  with  sticks,  but  he  charged  us  so 
fiercely,  that  after  an  hour's  hard  work,  and  a  hundred 
ineffectual  attempts,  we  were  compelled  to  give  in  at  last, 
and  his  owner  had  to  seek  a  wide  bridge  higher  up  the  river 
which  took  him  nine  miles  out  of  his  way.  On  this  occasion 
the  animal  displayed  splendid  courage  and  indomitable 
resolution,  so  that  it  would  have  been  impossible  to 
thwart  his  purpose  without  inflicting  some  serious  injury. 
The  pig  has  not  been  so  much  painted  as  he  deserves,* 
which  is  somewhat  remarkable,  for  he  is  decidedly  a 

•  It  may  be  observed  in  passing  that  the  pig  is  an  important  contri- 
butor to  the  fine  arts  by  his  bristles,  which  make  the  most  suitable 
brushes  for  oil-painting.  This  may  seem  a  small  matter  to  the  unin- 
itiated, but  the  truth  is,  that  the  direction  of  a  school's  practice  is  in  a 
great  measure  technically  determined  by  the  quality  of  the  brush  which 
it  prefers.  Hog-tools  favour  a  manly  style  of  painting,  sable-tools  a  more 
efleminate  one.  I  knew  a  Scottish  artist  of  great  merit  who  used  to  de- 


PIGS.  141 

popular  animal,  and  some  breeds  of  pigs  offer  very  fine 
pictorial  material,  with  rich  blacks,  and  good  flesh-col- 
our and  texture ;  besides  which  there  is  a  great  deal  of 
character  in  their  attitudes,  especially  in  their  perfect 
expression  of  repletion  whilst  the  great  business  of  di- 
gestion is  going  forward.  Morland  understood  pigs,  and 
his  clever  pictures  of  them  found  an  appreciative  public. 
But  the  tendency  of  modern  breeding  is,  as  usual,  against 
the  pictorial  qualities  of  the  animal.  The  prize-pig  ideal 
is  a  round  mass  of  matter  like  a  gorged  leech,  with  legs 
so  small  as  to  be  scarcely  visible,  and  so  nearly  useless 
as  to  be  incapable  of  activity.  The  true  pig,  kept  of 
yore  in  vast  numbers  by  the  swineherds  of  Gaul  and 
Britain  in  the  primeval  forests,  may  not  have  been  a 
pretty  animal,  but  he  had  many  of  the  fine  qualities  of 
his  ancestor  the  wild  boar,  and  something  of  the  sub- 
limity of  his  aspect.  The  best  pigs  for  a  painter  to  study 
are  those  which  have  deviated  least  from  the  natural 
type,  those  which  have  retained  much  of  its  strength, 
courage,  and  activity,  with  something  of  its  fiery  anger 
and  ferocity.  They  plough  the  earth  as  if  their  snouts 
were  of  iron,  they  crash  through  the  underwood  like 
young  elephants,  where  the  acorns  lie  thick  in  the  winter ! 
Paint  them  so  in  the  early  forest,  watched  by  the  skin- 
clad  swineherd,  when  the  wild  boars  came  out  in  the 
moonlight,  and  said,  '  Let  us  play  together  ! ' 

clare  that  oil  paint  could  not  be  properly  manipulated  by  any  other  than 
hog-tools,  and  that  a  school  which  used  sables  was  Inevitably  on  the  road 
to  a  sure  and  swift  decadence. 


CHAPTER    IX. 

WILD   BOARS. 

I  KNOW  a  little  farm-house,  in  a  lonely  dell  of  the 
Morvan,  where  the  unlucky  tenant  is  plagued  by  two 
sorts  of  unpleasant  neighbours,  vipers  and  wild  boars. 
The  vipers  keep  him  and  his  family  in  the  continual 
expectation  of  being  poisoned;  and  the  wild  boars  are 
rival  agriculturists,  ploughing  the  land  in  their  own 
fashion,  and  enviously  damaging  the  crops.  The  farmer's 
lads  keep  watch  and  ward  against  these  intruders 
throughout  the  nights  of  summer,  whilst  the  corn  is 
ripening  in  the  tiny  fields  between  the  steep  hill-sides. 
Dense  is  the  forest  to  right  and  left  for  many  a  lonely 
league,  and  how  many  wild  boars  are  hidden  in  those 
hills  and  vales  of  verdure  not  even  the  hunters  know. 
Wild  as  they  are  they  like  the  farmer's  fields,  and  fre- 
quently in  the  twilight  they  may  be  seen  venturing 
beyond  the  edge  of  the  dark  forest,  and  even  when  the 
moon  is  high  their  sombre  forms  move  out  upon  the 
lighted  spaces  of  the  land.  In  a  comparatively  limited 
extent  of  country  ninety  of  them  were  killed  in  a  single 


WILD  BOARS.  143 


season,  in  fair  hunting,  with  horn  and  hound.  Occa- 
sionally, but  rarely,  they  leave  their  native  forests  on 
the  hills  and  explore  the  fertile  populous  plain,  miles 
from  their  lonely  fastnesses.  Only  the  other  day,  in 
the  burning  Burgundy  summer,  a  wild  sow  and  two 
young  ones  were  imprudent  enough  to  come  near  a 
certain  chateau  that  I  know,  whose  owner  is  an  idle 
man  surrounded  by  dogs  and  guns.  Notwithstanding 
the  torrid  heat  a  chase  was  rapidly  organised,  and  the 
cry  of  dogs,  the  galloping  of  horses,  the  music  of 
echoing  horns,  resounded  over  the  unaccustomed  fields. 
Two  days  after  I  called  at  the  same  chateau,  and  the 
master  thereof  greeted  me  from  the  top  of  his  outer 
stair  with  the  grand  old  royal  exultation,  '  Hang  thyself, 
brave  Crillon;  we  have  fought  at  Arqua,  and  thou  wast 
not  there  ! ' 

The  old  French  nobility  decorated  the  pursuit  of  the 
wild  boar  with  a  vast  deal  of  external  poetry.  The 
elaborate  and  imaginative  vocabulary  of  the  hunt,  the 
quite  peculiar  and  original  music,  the  picturesque  cos- 
tumes, the  fanciful  names  given  to  the  huntsmen,  all 
derived  from  the  chase  itself  or  from  sylvan  nature, 
made  the  sport  of  the  grand  seigneur  as  much  more 
splendid  and  romantic  than  the  simple  killing  of  a 
beast  as  is  a  princely  banquet  to  the  plain  satisfaction 
of  hunger,  or  the  sculptured  front  of  a  palace  to  the 
wall  of  a  Highland  hut.  Never  was  there  a  more  perfect 
illustration  of  the  philosophy  of  the  superfluous  !  Of 
all  those  complex  inventions  and  arrangements  hardly 


144  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 

one  was  absolutely  necessary,  yet  each  had  a  sort  of 
reason  for  existing,  deep  in  the  recesses  of  the  human 
imagination.  It  was  like  the  ceremonial  of  a  court,  or 
of  pontifical  high  mass,  where  many  persons  unite  to 
produce  an  effect  of  collective  discipline  and  grandeur, 
yet  of  whom  the  large  majority  are,  like  the  actors  in  a 
theatrical  army,  costumed  supernumeraries.  It  was  bar- 
barous, if  you  will ;  but  if  you  take  away  everything  that 
can  be  called  barbarous,  how  little  will  be  left  to  look 
upon  !  The  exact  opposite  of  it  may  be  noticed  in  the 
matter-of-fact  language  and  habits  of  English  officers 
in  India.  The  intense  realism  of  contemporary  English- 
men, their  horror  of  anything  like  pageantry  in  action, 
or  poetry  in  expression,  produce  a  disposition  the  very 
reverse  of  that  which  adorns  all  human  enterprise  with 
the  fanciful  embroideries  of  romance.  Instead  of  riding 
forth  in  three-cornered  hats,  in  green  hunting-suits  faced 
with  scarlet  and  gold ;  insted  of  encumbering  them- 
selves with  enormous  horns,  those  practical  Englishmen 
go  out  dressed  like  jockeys,  each  with  a  plain  spear  ;  and 
even  the  Viceroy  himself,  lord  of  an  empire  tenfold 
greater  than  the  France  of  Louis  XIV.,  is  not  to  be 
distinguished  from  the  rest.  And  so  far  from  using 
the  picturesque  old  vocabulary  of  the  chase,  they  will 
not  even  use  the  ordinary  language  of  Englishmen  ;  they 
reject  it,  not  as  too  prosaic,  but  as  not  being  prosaic 
enough.  If  an  art-critic  had  to  speak  of  a  certain 
picture  by  Snyders,  he  would  call  it  a  boar-hunt,  but 
our  officers  in  India  call  it  a  pig-sticking.  How  perfectly 


WILD  BOARS.  145 


'that  paints  the  strange  shyness  of  the  modern  English- 
man, depreciating  his  own  exploits  and  his  own  foes, 
calling  wild  boars  pigs,  and  the  princes  of  India  niggers, 
and  himself  a  pork-butcher  ! 

The  irresistible  tendencies  of  the  age  are  stripping 
our  life,  fast  enough,  of  the  little  external  poetry  that 
remains  to  it,  and  the  feeling  of  wistful  regret  for  the 
romantic  language  and  picturesque  usages  of  the  past, 
which  in  Sir  Walter  Scott  produced  the  characters  we 
all  know  and  the  fictions  we  all  enjoy,  may  still  pardon- 
ably find  a  lodging  in  the  hearts  of  some  of  us.  For 
me,  though  the  actual  slaughter  of  any  poor  wild  thing 
is  in  itself  a  sight  not  pleasurable,  I  enjoy  the  princely 
spectacle  of  the  chase.  Let  the  reader  imagine — I  am 
describing  from  memory,  not  from  invention — a  grand 
old  forest  chateau  standing  lonely  in  the  heart  of  appa- 
rently illimitable  woods.  It  belongs  to  a  famous  name 
of  the  old  noblesse,  but  the  master  has  a  palace  within 
easier  reach  of  Paris,  full  of  modern  luxury,  and  so  this 
old  chateau  is  now  a  mere  rendezvous  de  cliasse.  From 
its  turrets  the  Alps  are  visible  over  a  sea  of  forest- 
covered  hills.  The  rooms  inside  are  lofty  and  vast, 
and  scantily  furnished  with  a  few  pathetic-looking  old 
things.  On  the  walls  of  many  a  chamber 

'  Flaps  the  ghost-like  tapestry, 

And  on  the  arras  wrought  you  see 

A  stately  huntsman,  clad  in  green, 

And  round  him  a  fresh  forest  scene. 

On  that  clear  forest  knoll  he  stays 

With  his  pack  round  him,  and  delays  ; 

T 


146  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 

The  wild  boar  rustles  in  his  lair — 
The  fierce  hounds  snuff  the  tainted  air. 
But  lord  and  hounds  keep  rooted  there,' 

Even  so  they  hunted  the  boar  in  the  days  of  Henry  IV., 
and  to-day  again  the  grass-grown  courlTof  the  chateau  will 
resound  with  impatient  hoofs,  and  the  horns  will  break 
the  solemn  silence  of  the  woods.  Long  before  earliest 
dawn  the  men  have  been  out  with  lanterns,  and  the 
mute  hounds  called  limiers,  to  seek  for  the  track  of  the 
boar.  They  have  found  the  track  and  broken  a  branch 
and  laid  it  down  for  an  indication.  The  October  mist 
lies  in  the  distant  valleys,  and  many  a  carriage  is  rolling 
over  the  roads  that  it  covers  towards  the  old  forest 
chateau.  About  nine  o'clock  most  of  the  invited  guests 
arrive,  the  men  in  hunting  costumes,  various  and  pict- 
uresque, the  ladies  in  morning  dress.  The  men  mount 
their  horses,  the  ladies  get  into  their  carriages,  and  the 
whole  cavalcade  moves  along  one  of  the  many  roads  in 
the  forest.  Within  a  distance  of  some  miles  from  the 
chateau,  in  every  direction,  all  these  roads  are  sufficiently 
well  kept  for  driving,  and  each  has  its  own  name  in 
white  letters  on  plates  of  blue  enamel,  just  like  the  streets 
of  Paris.  Without  this  precaution  it  would  be  difficult 
to  give  precise  directions.  The  piqueurs  and  valets-de- 
chiens  wear  a  quaint-looking  uniform  of  blue  with  gold 
lace,  and  are  mounted  on  powerful  grey  horses.  It  is 
charming  to  see  them  pass  under  *  the  great  beech 
avenues  near  the  house,  it  is  a  series  of  complete  pictures, 
as  sun  and  shadow  fall  upon  them  from  mighty  trunks 


WILD  B04RS.  147 


and  through  the  golden  autumn  leaves.  The  French 
painters  of  scenes  of  this  kind  delight  especially  in  the 
valcts-de-chien,  who  whilst  on  horseback  hold  several 
couples  of  hounds  in  leash,  and  when  they  have  to  gallop 
need  strength  and  skill  to  manage  both  horse  and  dogs. 
The  expression  of  their  faces,  and  their  attitudes  in  the 
saddle,  are  enough  to  prove  that  the  task  is  not  always 
easy. 

Some  couples  of  the  best  dogs  are  sent  forward  to 
rouse  the  boar,  whose  whereabouts  has  been  pretty 
accurately  ascertained.  As'  soon  as  any  one  catches  a 
glimpse  of  him  you  hear  the  fanfare  on  the  horns,  and 
the  chase  begins  in  earnest.  Then  comes  a  great  deal  of 
galloping  along  the  roads,  the  carriages  managing  to 
keep  up  pretty  well  by  taking  judicious  cuts.  Everybody 
gets  very  much  excited,  but  the  chances  are  that  the 
people  in  the  carriages  will  hardly  be  in  at  the  death ; 
and  even  the  horsemen  may  have  to  dismount  and  make 
their  way  on  foot  into  some  dense  jungle  of  young  trees 
where  the  enemy  stands  at  bay.  The  old-fashioned 
method  of  closing  with  him  at  the  end  was  to  attack  him 
with  spears ;  and  even  to  this  day  some  bold  huntsmen 
go  at  him  with  the  bare  blade  of  a  strong  knife  or  dagger, 
but  the  more  prudent  finish  him  at  a  safer  distance  by 
the  help  of  unfair  gunpowder.  A  great  old  solitary  will 
choose  the  ground  for  his  last  fight  like  some  desperate 
outlaw  on  whose  head  a  price  is  fixed.  He  will  make 
for  some  rough  place,  impenetrable  to  every  other 
creature  except  the  snake  and  the  weasel,  some  barren 


148  CHAPTERS  ON  4NIM4LS. 

stony  desolation  choked  with  briars,  where  the  vipers 
breed  in  peace.  His  decision  made,  he  turns  upon  the 
dogs,  and  then  woe  to  the  hound  that  attacks  him  !  The 
poor  brave  dogs  come  on,  and  are  ripped  open  one  after 
another.  An  old  boar  has  been  seen,  in  such  a  position, 
with  five  dogs  killed  and  twelve  lying  badly  wounded  on 
the  bloody  stones  around  him.  This  is  the  time  when 
the  hunter  has  need  of  all  his  courage  and  coolness,  and 
all  his  sylvan  skill.  The  beast  weighs  between  three  and 
four  hundred  pounds,  and  such  is  the  impression  produced 
by  his  strength  and  fierceness  that  the  great,  grim, 
bristling  mass  looks  twice  the  size  that  it  is.  Once  on 
an  occasion  of  this  kind,  as  the  dogs  were  killed  one 
after  another,  and  it  seemed  as  though  all  the  pack  would 
be  successively  massacred,  the  master  said  reluctantly, 
'  Try  him  wi-th  old  Rovigo,'  an  ancient  hound  of  fame, 
used  for  attack  no  longer  on  account  of  the  infirmities  of 
age.  The  dog  was  fetched  to  the  front,  saw  with  dim 
eyes  the  monstrous  boar  surroun^ed^  by  prostrate 
victims,  regained  for  an  instant,  like  old  Sir  Henry  Lee 
in  'Woodstock,'  the  decision  and  energy  of  youth, 
fastened  on  the  boar's  neck,  and  hung  there  till  the  great 
beast  received  his  death-stroke.  But  he  also,  Rovigo, 
had  met  his  fate  that  hour :  his  body  had  been  opened 
by  the  boar's  tusk,  and  whilst  he  hung  on  with 
terrible  grip  his  own  entrails  were  dragging  along 
the  ground.  His  sorrowing  master  decreed  a  sylvan 
law,  observed  to  this  day  religiously,  that  whenever 
men  met  together  to  hunt  the  boar  upon  those  lands 


WILD  BOARS.  149 


they  should  solemnly  drink  to  the  honoured  memory  of 
Rovigo. 

Sometimes  in  this  way  there  occur  both  tragic  and 
ludicrous  incidents.  The  wild  boar  is  dangerous  even  to 
men ;  and  brave  men,  such  as  the  present  chief  of  the 
House  of  Savoy,  take  spear  and  hunting-knife,  and  dare 
him  to  single  combat  in  his  own  fastnesses.  If  there 
happen  to  be  large  thick  trees  close  by,  the  danger  is  not 
so  great,  for  an  active  man  may  then  avoid  his  charges 
as  he  would  those  of  an  infuriated  bull,  but  when  there  is 
nothing  but  brambles  the  hunter  needs  all  his  presence  of 
mind.  M.  de  Montcrocq,  who  was  lieutenant  de  louveterie 
forty  years  ago  in  the  department  of  Saone  ct  Loire,  was 
remarkable  for  his  coolness  at  these  moments.  His  great 
delight  was  to  be  charged  by  the  wild  boar,  and  stop 
him  in  mid-career  with  a  rifle-ball.  One  of  his  friends 
tells  a  story  which  illustrates  the  almost  incredible  cool- 
ness and  precision  of  the  man.  They  were  hunting 
together  in  a  country  covered  with  holly  and  furze,  when 
the  boar  charged  M.  de  Montcrocq,  which  was  exactly  what 
that  brave  gentleman  desired.  When  he  considered  the 
animal  near  enough,  he  fired,  and  the  beast  rolled  over. 
The  huntsman  ran  to  examine  him,  but  could  not  find 
the  ball.  M.  de  Montcrocq,  as  he  walked  up  at  his 
leisure,  called  out  '  You  will  most  likely  find  it  some- 
where near  the  left  eye,  as  I  took  aim  there.'  The  ball 
had  entered  the  eye  itself.  Men  of  this  quality  were  born  to 
hunt  noble  game,  but  some  others  would  more  prudently 
act  upon  the  advice  tendered  by  Venus  to  Adonis, — 


i5o  CHAPTERS  ON  AN1M4LS. 

1  But  if  them  needs  will  hunt,  be  ruled  by  me, 

Uncouple  at  the  timorous  flying  hare, 

Or  at  the  fox,  which  lives  by  subtilty, 

Or  at  the  roe,  which  no  encounter  dare  : 

Pursue  these  fearful  creatures  o'er  the  downs, 

And  on  thy  well  breathed  horse  keep  with  thy  hounds.' 

Let  the  timid  and  irresolute  remember  that  description 
of  the  wild  boar  which  the  eloquent  Venus  gave, — 

'On  his  bow  back  he  hath  a  battle  set 
Of  bristly  pikes,  that  ever  threat  his  foes ; 
His  eyes  like  glowworms  shine  when  he  doth  fret  j 
His  snout  digs  sepulchres  where'er  he  goes  ; 
Being  moved,  he  strikes  whate'er  is  in  his  way, 
And  whom  he  strikes,  his  cruel  tushes  slay. 

'  His  brawny  sides,  with  hairy  bristles  armed, 
Are  better  proof  than  thy  spear's  point  can  enter; 
His  short  thick  neck  cannot  be  easily  harmed ; 
Being  ireful,  on  the  lion  he  will  venture  : 
The  thorny  brambles  and  embracing  bushes, 
As  fearful  of  him,  part ;  through  whom  he  rushes.7 

It  is  said  that  too  much  study  of  literature  and  the 
fine  arts  has  a  tendency  to  lower  the  natural  courage  of 
man,  and  weaken  the  force  of  his  resolution.  Perhaps 
the  person  of  whom  I  am  going  to  narrate  a  brief  but 
authentic  history  may  have  read  these  counsels  of 
Shakespeare's  Venus,  and  taken  them  to  heart ;  perhaps, 
without  being  himself  an  Adonis,  he  may  have  seen 
pictures  of  that  lovely  youth,  whose  marble  limbs  lay 
stiffening  in  the  forest-glade,  where  the  bristly  beast  had 
torn  them.  He  may  have  reflected,  that,  although  not 


WILD  BOARS.  151 


gifted  with  that  perfect  beauty,  his  limbs  were  not  less 
useful  than  if  they  had  been  cast  in  a  god-like  mould, 
and  although  no  divine  mistress  would  ever  lament  his 
death,  he  might  be  wept  for  by  a  homely  wife. 

The  story,  a  perfectly  true  one,  is  as  follows : — A 
certain  French  nobleman,  who  loved  the  chase,  and 
regularly  hunted  the  boar,  became  dissatisfied  with  his 
piqueur,  and  discharged  him.  There  were  many  appli- 
cants for  the  vacant  place,  and  amongst  the  rest  a 
stranger,  who  talked  so  persuasively  and  so  knowingly, 
that  he  was  accepted  in  preference  to  men  who  had 
distinguished  themselves  in  the  field.  The  first  day  that 
the  new  huntsman  occupied  his  post,  nothing  could  be 
more  satisfactory  than  his  manner,  which  was  that  of  a 
master  of  sylvan  craft.  Evidently  he  was  a  man  of  ex- 
perience and  ability  in  venerie.  All  went  well  till  the 
boar  was  brought  to  bay.  This  took  place  in  the  thick 
forest,  and  the  spectacle  was  more  than  usually  animated, 
for  the  boar  was  a  grand  old  brute,  and  sold  his  life 
dearly.  After  he  was  slain  it  suddenly  struck  the  noble- 
man that  he  had  not  seen  his  new  piqueur — where  could 
he  be  ?  had  any  accident  happened  to  him  ?  All  present 
asked  each  other  these  questions ;  when  at  length  Mon- 
sieur le  Comte  happened  to  cast  his  eyes  upwards  and 
perceived  his  piqueur  in  a  tree,  looking  in  his  gorgeous 
uniform  like  a  very  rare  bird  indeed.  The  Count  im- 
mediately covered  him  with  his  gun,  and  shouted,  '  Come 
down  at  once,  or  I  fire ! '  The  brave  huntsman  de- 
scended, and  then  his  master  added,  '  Now  cut  for  it,  and 


152  CHAPTERS  ON  4N1MALS. 

look  sharp,  or  you  will  have  a  bullet  in  your  back  ! '  and 
away  went  the  hunter,  boots,  cocked  hat,  gold  lace, 
French  horn  and  all,  followed  by  shouts  of  derision.  He 
ran  so  fast  that  he  was  speedily  out  of  sight,  and  he  ran 
so  far  that  they  who  had  been  witnesses  of  his  shame  be- 
held his  face  no  more. 

A  great  boar-hunt  took  place  last  year  in  a  neighbour- 
hood very  well  known  to  me,  and  the  unfortunate  chief 
actor  therein  (not  the  wild  boar)  was  one  of  my  most 
intimate  friends.  He  had  been  invited  along  with  many 
others  to  meet  certain  princes  and  other  great  personages 
who  had  come  hundreds  of  miles  to  have  a  lordly  chase, 
in  fullest  pomp  and  pride.  The  day  dawned  propitiously, 
the  ground  was  admirably  chosen,  the  noblesse  were  all 
well  mounted,  the  track  had  been  easily  found.  In  the 
midst  of  the  country  where  the  hunt  was  to  take  place, 
my  friend  had  a  beautiful  estate,  and  there  he  posted  him- 
self with  his  son,  both  of  them  well  armed  with  rifles.  A 
man  is  apt  to  feel  peculiarly  at  home  on  his  own  land, 
and  as  my  friend  watched  in  his  own  wood,  he  listened, 
perhaps  with  too  willing  and  credulous  an  ear,  to  the 
advice  of  his  own  keeper.  '  If  any  boar  were  to  come 
this  way,  sir,'  said  the  man, '  you  may  fire  without  hesita- 
tion, for  the  dogs  have  disturbed  more  than  one,  and  the 
one  that  comes  here  cannot  possibly  be  that  which  they 
are  hunting.'  Scarcely  had  the  man  uttered  these  words 
than  there  was  a  rush  in  the  dense  underwood,  and  a  fine 
boar  burst  in  sight,  bearing  down  upon  the  little  group 
with  a  rapid  and  alarming  directness.  Father  and  son 


WILD  B04RS.  153 


fired  together,  and  the  brute  rolled  over,  dead.  When 
they  had  examined  the  wounds,  and  were  congratulating 
each  other  on  this  brilliant  feat  of  arms,  a  great  noise 
came  nearer  and  nearer,  a  sounding  of  fanfares  on  many 
horns,  a  yelling  of  dogs,  a  clattering  of  hoofs  upon  the 
turf-  Presently  the  whole  hunt  was  there  and  surrounded 
my  wretched  friend,  pouring  maledictions  on  his  head. 
He  had  been  guilty  of  worse  than  murder,  he  had  privily 
slain  the  beast  which  was  just  going  to  afford  brave  sport 
to  prince  and  noble.  In  the  rage  of  their  disappointment 
they  overwhelmed  him  with  the  bitterest  abuse,  swearing 
at  him  as  only  disappointed  sportsmen  can  swear  at  the 
miserable  being  that  comes  between  them  and  the  satis- 
faction of  their  instincts.  For  the  rest  of  that  day, 
and  for  many  subsequent  days,  he  bore  in  silence 
the  burden  of  a  crushing  unpopularity.  They  dragged 
away  the  carcase  of  his  victim,  they  did  not  send 
him  one  slice,  they  did  not  invite  him  to  dinner. 
Alone  they  left  him,  to  meditate  on  the  enormity  of  his 
crime ! 

Not  only  sportsmen,  but  artists,  may  regret  the 
extinction  of  the  wild  boar  in  Great  Britain.  There 
is  an  immense  difference,  in  picturesque  interest,  be- 
tween a  boar-hunt  in  the  Morvan  and  a  fox-hunt  in 
Yorkshire  or  Leicestershire.  The  animal  himself  is 
larger,  more  terrible,  and  though  ugly,  is  better  ma- 
terial for  painting ;  the  scenery  of  the  hunt  is  rougher 
and  wilder,  the  costumes  are  more  quaint  and  pictur- 
esque. Still  finer  must  it  be  when  the  bold  King  Victor 

U 


154  CHAPTERS.  ON  ANIMALS. 

Emmanuel  meets  the  boar  in  the  valleys  of  Piedmont, 
and  the  grim  old  lord  of  the  forest  succumbs  to  the 
royal  spear,  the  snowy  Alps  looking  down  on  him  as 
on  his  fathers  for  a  thousand  years.  It  is  barbarous, 
if  you  will,  and  satisfies  instincts  which  are  a  remnant 
of  savagery  in  our  nature,  but  it  is  nobler  to  go  up  to  a 
fierce  old  boar,  whose  jaws  are  dripping  with  blood, 
whose  tusk  is  as  dangerous  as  the  horns  of  a  furious  bull, 
than  to  course  the  timid  hare  that  has  no  means  of  harm- 
ing you.  *  It  is  not  beauty  alone  which  gives  power  and 
interest  to  art,  sublimity  affects  us  even  more.  The  wild 
boar  is  not  beautiful,  but  he  is  sublime  in  his  lonely  cour- 
age. The  younger  boars  keep  together  for  safety  against 
the  wolves,  and  form  into  a  close  phalanx,  the  smallest 
in  the  middle,  but  the  old  ones  live  alone,  each  trusting 
to  own  cool  prowess,  and  not  even  the  wolf  disturbs  him. 
When  the  dogs  chase  him  he  goes  on  without  any  panic 
fear,  turning  round  occasionally  to  chastise  them,  and 
choosing  his  ground  ere  long  to  fight  the  last  hard  battle. 

•  The  Imperial  Court  of  Germany  pursues  the  boar  from  time  to  time, 
but  the  animal  is  bred  in  a  paddock,  and  turned  out  to  be  hunted,  be- 
fore which  his  tusks  are  purposely  broken  off,  so  that  he  may  do  no 
manner  of  harm.  If  the  motive  of  this  is  a  human  care  for  the  dogs, 
•which  are  often  ruthlessly  sacrificed  in  other  countries,  nothing  can  be 
more  respectable,  but  it  certainly  takes  away  half  the  dignity  of  boar- 
hunting  by  removing  the  element  of  danger.  It  has  been  observed,  indeed' 
during  the  war  in  France,  that  although  the  Germans  showed  the  steadiest 
courage  on  all  occasions  when  it  was  really  called  for,  they  took  the  most 
prudent  precautions  when  danger  might  be  reduced  or  averted  beforehand. 
This  is  laudable  in  so  serious  a  business  as  war,  which  is  always  perilous 
enough,  but  in  field-sports  some  danger  is  necessary  to  make  them 
interesting. 


WILD  BOARS.  155 


When  he  dies  it  is  not  without  honour,  and  art  may 
worthily  celebrate  his  end. 

This  gregariousness  in  youth,  and  solitude  in  age, 
might  be  a  text  for  a  disquisition  on  human  society  and 
solitude  if  there  were  room  for  it.  Association  and 
isolation,  each  at  the  right  time,  are  good  for  men  as  well 
as  for  wild  boars.  There  is  a  time  to  unite  ourselves  in 
compact  companies  ;  there  is  a  time  also — though  this  is 
less  generally  admitted — to  face  in  the  solemnity  of 
solitude  the  grave  problems  of  life  and  death. 


CHAPTER  X. 

WOLVES. 

THE-  extinction  of  Wolves  in  England  for  so  many  cen- 
turies past,  has  given  them,  in  the  popular  mind,  a  sort 
of  unreality.  The  wolf  is  a  great  hero  of  fables,  and 
eternally  associated,  in  the  dearest  recollections  of  us  all, 
with  the  story  of  '  Little  Red  Ridinghood.'  The  news- 
papers make  use  of  him  occasionally  for  political  pur- 
poses ;  Prince  Bismarck,  for  example,  is  not  unfrequently 
compared  to  the  celebrated  wolf  who  complained  that  a 
lamb  disturbed  the  rivulet  he  drank  from, — the  lamb  in 
these  cases  being  Denmark,  or  some  other  small  power, 
with  which  the  great  Chancellor  finds  it  convenient  from 
time  to  time  to  have  a  quarrel  Mr.  Gladstone,  as  we  all 
know,  is  a  wolf  in  sheep's  clothing ;  and  even  in  the 
Church,  the  controversial  papers  affirm  that  there  are 
wolves  in  sheep's  clothing  also.  So  that,  notwithstanding 
all  the  wise  precautions  of  King  Egbert,  there  are  wolves 
in  England  yet ;  and  especially  one  very  big,  and  terrible, 
and  grim,  and  pitiless  old  wolf  (old  he  is,  indeed,  old  as 
humanity,  and  likely  to  last  till  humanity  itself  perishes), 


WOLVES.  157 


which  thousands  and  thousands  of  people  have  the 
greatest  difficulty,  do  what  they  can,  in  keeping  from  the 
door.  Keep  the  wolf  from  the  door,  indeed  !  What  is  a 
mere  material  wolf,  going  on  four  legs,  to  that  metapho- 
rical wolf — Destitution, — that  envelopes  people  like  an 
awful  void  and  vacuum,  in  which  no  human  lungs  can 
breathe  ?  This  is  one  of  those  instances  in  which  the  me- 
taphor lowers,  instead  of  enhancing,  the  effect  intended, 
at  least,  for  those  to  whom  the  zoological  wolf  is  not  an 
unfamiliar  visitor.  For  you  may  shoot  him,  or  hit  him 
with  a  stone,  or  give  him  a  kick,  but  how  are  you  to  shoot 
Destitution,  or  stone  or  strike  that  hideous,  incorporeal 
spectre  ? 

The  reader  has  no  doubt  often  met  with  wolves  in  me- 
nageries and  zoological  gardens,  but  in  England  we  are 
not  under  any  apprehension  about  meeting  with  wolves 
in  a  state  of  nature.  I  cannot  say  that  King  Egbert 
rendered  an  unmixed  service  to  the  island  by  the  extinc- 
tion of  these  animals,  for  although  he  tranquillised  the 
minds  of  the  inhabitants,  he  at  the  same  time  deprived 
them  of  a  small  ingredient  of  danger  which  is  not  with- 
out its  charm.  When  you  drive  through  a  French  forest 
on  a  winter's  night,  the  interest  of  your  drive  is  very 
greatly  enhanced  by  the  possibility  that  a  wolf  may 
make  his  appearance  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  or  that 
two  or  three  of  them  together  may  take  to  pursuing  you, 
in  which  case  you  may  rely  upon  it  that  your  horses  will 
show  their  speed  to  the  best  possible  advantage.  I  remem- 
ber driving  one  night  in  France,  on  the  skirts  of  a  forest, 


158  CHAPTERS  ON  4NIMALS. 

a  very  lively  horse  indeed,  when  suddenly  he  became 
livelier  still, — so  lively,  in  fact,  that  it  was  scarcely  pos- 
sible to  hold  him,  and  would  not  have  been  possible  at 
all  had  not  the  road  been  deeply  covered  with  snow,  that 
was  still  silently  and  drearily  falling.  It  was  between 
midnight  and  one  in  the  morning,  and  nothing  was  in 
sight  but  the  black  edge  of  impenetrable  forest,  with  here 
and  there  a  bit  of  sedgy  morass,  and,  on  the  other  hand, 
miles  of  treeless  land,  all  white  and  untrodden,  stretching 
away  till  it  joined  the  dark  grey  sky.  Whilst  endeav- 
ouring to  restrain  the  horse's  impatience,  I  began  to  have 
a  sort  of  feeling  as  if  our  shadows  accompanied  us  on 
that  swift  course,  and  yet  our  lanterns  were  not  lighted 
and  there  was  no  moon,  nothing  but  the  steady  weird 
light  from  the  infinite  white  fields.  I  had  a  lady  with  me, 
a  Frenchwoman,  not  wanting  in  courage,  and  she  quickly 
laid  her  hand  on  my  arm,  and  said  '  Les  Loups  /'  Yes, 
the  two  moving  shades  were  a  couple  of  large  wolves 
cantering  silently  in  the  same  direction,  and  in  a  line 
strictly  parallel  with  our  own  course,  not  pursuing  us,  but 
keeping  steadily  in  the  fields  to  our  left.  So  we  kept  on 
for  about  a  league,  the  horse  half  mad  with  fright,  and 
galloping  as  fast  as  the  snow  would  let  him,  and  still  the 
two  black  creatures  to  the  left  of  us,  keeping  up  with  us 
as  it  seemed  so  easily,  with  that  steady  silent  canter  of 
theirs  over  the  thickening  snow !  Whether  they  would 
attack  us  or  not  depended  simply  upon  the  intensity  of 
hunger  they  might  be  enduring,  and  we  watched  them 
for  some  minutes  with  anxiety,  but  at  length  we  began 


WOLVES.  159 


to  imagine  that  the  lines  of  our  courses  were  no  longer 
quite  parallel,  that  the  space  between  us  and  the  wolves 
was  gradually  widening.  Soon  afterwards  this  became  a 
certainty :  the  wolves  were  going  on  a  mission  of  their 
own,  probably  to  some  sheepfold  in  the  neighbourhood, 
and  did  not  intend  to  honour  us  with  their  attention. 
The  parallelism  of  our  lines  of  route  had  been  merely  an 
accident,  and  our  companions  grew  less  and  less,  till  at 
length  we  could  only  perceive  two  tiny  black  specks  that 
seemed  almost  motionless  in  the  distance,  and  that  no- 
body who  had  not  seen  them  nearer  would  have  suspected 
to  be  wolves  at  all. 

Sometimes,  however,  the  wolves  are  more  to  be  feared, 
even  in  France.  It  seldom  happens  that  a  man  is  in  much 
danger  from  their  direct  attacks,  but  there  is  a  great  peril 
of  a  bad  carriage-accident  when  your  carriage  is  pursued 
by  wolves.  Horses  have  a  perfect  horror  of  these  ani- 
mals, and  lose  their  heads  entirely  on  such  occasions ;  so 
that  one  has  good  reason  to  dread  wolves  when  driving, 
especially  if  the  road  is  an  awkward  one.  I  know  a  road 
through  a  forest  in  the  Morvan  that  I  should  not  quite 
like  to  drive  over  at  midnight,  after  a  long  frost,  when 
the  wolves  are  hungry.  The  forest  in  that  place  is  about 
nine  miles  in  diameter,  and  the  road,  after  passing 
through  the  densest  shades,  winds  along  the  edge  of  a 
precipice  on  a  sort  of  ledge  or  shelf,  which  has  been 
blasted  for  it  out  of  the  solid  granite. 

There  is  a  low  parapet  on  the  other  side,  and  when  the 
rock  juts  out  towards  the  abyss  the  road  makes  a  sudden 


160  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 

bend  outwards  also,  so  that  it  is  rather  a  dangerous  place 
to  drive  upon  even  in  the  best  of  times.  Well,  it  hap- 
pened one  winter's  night  that  a  certain  man  was  driving 
over  this  lonely  road  through  the  forest  in  a.  sort  of  gig, 
quite  by  himself,  when  his  horse  suddenly  became  uncon- 
trollable. The  driver  found  out  the  cause  very  shortly, 
for  a  band  of  several  wolves  were  in  full  pursuit.  He  had 
nothing  to  do  but  try  to  keep  from  upsetting,  and  let  his 
horse  go  as  fast  as  mortal  terror  could  impel  him.  At 
length  they  came  to  the  precipice,  and  here  there  is  a  rapid 
decline,  as  the  road  winds  in  and  out  upon  the  face  of  the 
cliff.  The  decline  continues  for  miles,  and  the  horse  went 
down  it  at  full  gallop.  Every  time  he  came  to  a  turn 
there  were  two  imminent  dangers,  that  of  a  collison  with 
the  jutting  rock  on  the  inside  of  the  curve,  and  that  of 
flying  over  the  low  parapet  on  the  outside  of  it  into  the 
deep  abyss  below,  where  a  mountain  stream  falls  amongst 
its  rocks  in  a  series  of  wild  cascades.  The  wolves  got 
nearer  and  nearer,  the  wheels  went  faster  and  faster, 
bounding  from  the  stones  in  the  road  as  a  boy's  hoop 
leaps  and  springs.  At  length  they  were  out  of  the  forest, 
and  the  wolves  began  to  drop  gradually  behind,  a  lonely 
hamlet  was  reached,  and  the  pursuit  ceased  altogether. 

Very  often  a  wolf  sets  out  by  himself  on  a  little  ex- 
cursion amongst  the  farms  and  villages,  usually  at  night, 
occasionally,  but  rarely,  in  the  day.  When  he  prowls 
about  a  farm  the  animals  fly  in  every  direction ;  if  any 
horses  are  out  at  grass  they  leap  the  hedges  with  an  agility 
that  you  would  never  suspect ;  stiff  old  cart-horses  even 


WOLVES.  161 


will  try  a  jump,  and  blunder  through  the  hedges  some- 
how. As  for  the  sheep,  unless  secure  in  a  fold,  they 
have  an  anxious  time  of  it,  and  disperse  themselves  with- 
out calculating  consequences,  so  that  the  next  day  it  is 
not  easy  to  get  the  flock  together  again,  and  if  there  are 
any  streams  it  is  likely  enough  that  you  will  find  a  sheep 
or  two  drowned  in  them.  When  the  wolves  get  into 
the  habit  of  visiting  a  particular  neighbourhood,  they 
continue  it  for  several  nights  almost  consecutively,  and 
the  farmers  there  become  very  vigilant,  getting  all  ani- 
mals safely  housed  at  dusk.  The  wolf  comes  into  the 
farmyard,  and  the  creatures  in  the  buildings  round  it 
know  that  he  is  there,  and  pass  wakeful  and  anxious 
hours.  One  night  in  winter,  when  there  were  wolves 
about  the  farm  I  live  upon  when  I  am  in  France,  I  went 
about  midnight  to  the  stable,  and  just  on  coming  out  of 
it  met  a  fine  wolf  face  to  face.  We  were  not  more  than 
six  or  eight  feet  from  each  other,  and  both  rather  taken 
by  surprise.  I  had  no  weapon,  but  remembered  the 
tradition  that  you  must  never  turn  your  back  upon  a 
wolf,  so  I  stood  still  and  asked  him  what  he  wanted 
there.  The  sound  of  a  human  voice  seems  to  have 
affected  the  wolf's  mind,  for  he  turned  round  and  slinked 
away  into  the  dark  shades  of  a  neighbouring  wood.  The 
morning  after  I  learned  that  he  had  killed  a  goat  on  the 
next  farm.  I  exactly  remember  what  passed  in  my 
mind  during  our  brief  meeting.  '  That's  a  large  dog ; 
no,  it  is  not  a  dog,  it  is  something  else  ;  what  else  ? — 
wolf — no  weapon — must  keep  my  face  to  him.'  Then 

V 


162  CHAPTERS  ON  4N1MALS. 

aloud,  '  Well,  sir,  what  do  you  want  here  ?  '  On  which 
he  looked  steadfastly  at  me  for  a  second  or  two  without 
stirring,  then  made  a  rapid  right-about-face  and  cantered 
woodwards  in  perfect  silence. 

This  meeting  was  rather  a  surprise,  but  a  surprise  of  a 
still  more  startling  kind  happened  to  an  old  woman  who 
was  walking  through  a  lonely  wood.  She  felt  two  paws 
on  her  shoulders,  and  on  turning  round  (which  we  may 
be  sure  the  old  woman  did  sharply  enough)  found  that  it 
was  a  very  big  wolf  who  had  a  talent  for  practical  joking. 
After  this  the  wolf  followed  her,  quite  closely,  till  she  got 
out  of  the  wood,  and  then  left  her,  without  doing  her  the 
least  harm  in  any  way.  Now,  although  the  pleasantry 
of  laying  two  heavy  paws  in  a  startling  manner  upon  an 
old  'lady's  unexpecting  shoulders  cannot  be  considered 
in  good  taste,  still  we  must  make  allowances  for  a  face- 
tious animal  'that  could  not  express  his  facetiousness  by 
language ;  and  the  perfect  politeness  with  which  he  after- 
wards escorted  the  victim  of  his  joke,  though  no  doubt 
she  would  willingly  have  dispensed  with  his  attendance, 
proved,  I  think,  on  the  wolfs  part,  a  degree  of  natural 
courtesy  remarkable  in  a  creature  who  could  never  have 
been  much  in  the  society  of  ladies. 

In  all  these  anecdotes  which  I  have  just  been  telling, 
the  reader  may  have  observed  one  common  characteris- 
tic that  nobody  comes  to  any  harm,  and  so  it  is  in  the 
vast  majority  of  such  instances.  Wolves  are  not  danger- 
ous to  man,  except  in  bands  and  maddened  by  intoler- 
able hunger.  When  the  wolf  appears  in  the  day-time^ 


WOLVES.  163 


amongst  the  flocks  of  the  Morvan  villages,  a  vigorous 
young  shepherdess  will  even  go  and  kick  him  with  her 
wooden  shoes,  and  the  lads,  instead  of  running  away, 
pelt  him  heartily  with  stones.  The  wolf  in  England, 
where  he  is  seen  in  menageries,  like  a  savage  panther 
behind  strong  bars  of  iron,  enjoys  a  much  more  imposing 
reputation  than  in  France,  where  he  is  more  familiarly 
known.  Indeed  the  word  wolf  and  the  word  loup  do  not 
convey  the  same  impression  to  my  mind,  because  '  wolf/ 
to  me,  is  associated  with  the  grand  mystic  conception  of 
the  animal,  whereas  loup  is  associated  with  the  simple 
reality. 

When  a  peasant  can  catch  a  wolf  alive  it  is  a  source 
of  profit,  as  it  is  the  custom,  in  all  the  farm-houses  he 
chooses  to  visit,  to  make  him  a  small  present.  A  man 
addicted  to  poaching,  a  clever  trapper,  managed  to 
catch  two  wolves,  and  brought  them  to  my  house. 
They  were  of  course  very  securely  muzzled  and  chained, 
and  cowed  by  what  newspaper  reporters  would  call  '  a 
sense  of  their  position  ;  '  but  after  making  all  deductions 
on  that  account  I  could  not  help  thinking  that  for  ani- 
mals so  celebrated  in  fable  they  cut  but  a  poor  figure. 
I  was  curious  to  see  how  my  dog  would  behave  in  their 
presence,  and  called  him.  His  conduct  was  admirable, 
he  showed  no  more  ^motion  than  Sir  John  Malcolm 
did  when  he  passed  the  Persian  giant,  whom  he  took 
for  a  painted  representation  of  Roostem  and  his  club, 
but  passed  close  to  the  wolves  with  a  mere  glance  at 
them  and  then  lay  down  at  my  feet  whence  he  contem- 


164  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 


plated  them  at  his  leisure.  On  comparing  the  dog  and 
the  larger  of  the  two  wolves,  I  perceived  that  Tom  was 
certainly  the  heavier  and  apparently  the  more  powerful 
animal  of  the  two  ;  and  it  is  my  belief  that  in  a  combat, 
unless  the  wolf  gained  at  first  a  decisive  advantage  from 
that  instantaneous  ferocity  of  attack  which  wild  crea- 
tures usually  have  in  a  superior  degree,  Tom  would  have 
had  the  advantage.  According  to  Toussenel,  however, 
who  was  an  experienced  hunter,  dogs  have  a  great  objec- 
tion to  fight  the  wolf,  and  the  best  wolf-hound  in  the 
world  will  give  in  promptly  when  he  is  wounded.  A 
famous  wolf  of  the  department  of  Saone-et-Loire  which 
had  lived  in  a  forest  near  Cluny,  and  was  known  in  the 
neighbourhood  by  a  name,  for  the  hungers  called  him 
Cambronne,  would  issue  from  his  retreat  when  hunted 
and  break  a  leg  of  each  of  the  hounds  with  an  astonish- 
ing rapidity.  So  at  last  it  was  decided  to  conclude  a 
treaty  of  peace  with  Cambronne,  and  the  hunters  dis- 
turbed him  no  more.  He  met  his  death  in  a  most  strange 
manner.  One  day  he  was  swimming  in  the  river  Saone 
when  one  of  those  long  steamers  that  ply  upon  it  over- 
took him  and  killed  him  with  a  stroke  of  the  paddle. 
When  the  body  was  taken  out  of  the  water  it  was  recog- 
nised as  that  of  Cambronne.  As  to  the  strength  of  wolves, 
Toussenel  says  that  he  himself  saw  two  wolves  drag  the 
body  of  a  large  mare,  which  weighed  at  least  seven 
hundred  pounds,  out  of  a  muddy  marsh  with  sloping 
sides.  They  got  it  up  somehow  upon  the  dry  ground 
above,  and  in  three  hours  had  eaten  half  of  it  When 


WOLVES.  165 


you  consider  the  size  of  the  wolf,  both  these  facts  would 
be  incredible  if  we  had  not  the  authority  of  a  careful  per- 
sonal observer  who  took  the  greatest  interest  in  the  habits 
of  animals.  Supposing  that  the  wolves  weighed  a  hundred 
pounds  each,  their  united  weight  would  be  two  hundred 
pouads,  and  they  ate  nearly  twice  that  weight  of  horse- 
flesh in  three  hours.  It  appears,  however,  that  they  can 
reject  their  food  at  will,  and  in  that  way  enjoy  a  glutto- 
nous interminable  banquet  like  Heliogabalus.  The  other 
fact  that  they  drew  the  mare  out  of  the  marsh  can  be 
explained  by  nothing  but  vast  muscular  force  and  great 
skill  in  applying  it. 

The  character  and  habits  of  the  wolf  have  been  care- 
fully studied  by  many  observers,  who  agree  in  admit- 
ting his  craft  and  intelligence,  though  some  of  them  doubt 
his  courage.  Toussenel  tells  us  that  he  himself  saw  six 
full-grown  wolves  crossing  the  frozen  Loire,  in  single  file, 
in  the  winter  of  1829,  that  he  examined  their  track  after- 
wards, and  would  have  supposed,  if  he  had  not  seen  six 
wolves,  that  only  one  animal  had  crossed  the  river  in 
that  place,  so  accurately  had  the  five  others  placed  their 
paws  in  the  foot-prints  of  the  first.  The  wolf  is  so  suspi- 
cious that  it  is  almost  impossible  to  poison  him.  If  you 
place  a  poisoned  carcase  near  his  own  residence  he  will 
not  touch  it,  the  only  way  to  get  him  to  eat  of  it  is  to 
drag  it  a  long  distance  so  as  to  make  a  trail,  and  then 
seem  as  if  you  had  been  anxious  to  hide  it.  He  will 
follow  the  trail  at  night  and  find  the  carcase.  A  common 
way  is  to  lie  in  wait  for  him  with  rifles  round  about  the 


1 66  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 

spot  where  the  carcase  is,  and  then  pour  a  converging 
fire  upon  him  the  moment  of  his  arrival.  Notwithstanding 
the  most  intense  hunger  he  will  not  eat  of  anything  that 
seems  to  him  suspicious,  he  will  devour  earth  itself  first. 
The  same  prudence  marks  his  conduct  in  all  respects ;  he 
will  not  uselessly  expose  himself,  yet  he  is  not  a  coward. 
Like  all  robbers  he  enjoys  foggy  weather,  considering  it 
to  be  favourable  to  his  operations,  in  which  he  resembles 
a  well-known  London  thief,  whose  most  audacious  feat 
was  the  successful  robbery  of  a  twelfth-cake  from  a  con- 
fectioner's shop,  under  cover  of  a  London  fog.  It  is  well 
known  that  a  farm  which  is  close  to  the  wolf's  private 
residence  is  safer  than  one  situated  at  a  distance  of  a  few 
miles,  as  he  thinks  it  best  to  avoid  scandal  in  his  own 
neighbourhood,  just  as  young  gentlemen  conduct  them- 
selves very  properly  when  at  home  in  the  country  who 
are  not  always  quite  so  good  in  London  or  Paris.  The 
wolf  knows  too,  very  well,  who  are  his  active  enemies, 
and  who  are  the  people  whom,  though  not  friendly,  he 
can  afford  to  regard  with  indifference.  An  instance  is  on 
record  of  a  wolf  which,  quietly  seated  on  a  little  eminence, 
watched  the  long  line  of  peasants'  carts  going  to  market 
along  the  highroad  close  to  where  he  was.  The  long 
procession  amused  him,  just  as  it  amuses  an  old  lady 
sitting  by  her  window,  and  no  doubt  he  made  his  own 
philosophic  reflections  on  a  kind  of  life  from  which  cir- 
cumstances had  excluded  him.  Hundreds  of  anecdotes 
might  be  collected  in  proof  of  the  wolf's  exceeding  intel- 
ligence in  all  that  concerns  the  preservation  of  his  life, 


WOLVES.  167 


and  every  hunt  supplies  fresh  examples.  A  family  of 
young  wolves,  instructed  by  their  mother,  will  mislead 
the  hunters  artfully,  taking  the  dangerous  duty  by  turns 
for  the  protection  of  the  rest.  But  when  a  strong,  full- 
grown  animal  gets  fairly  away,  out  of  the  ring  of  beaters, 
his  policy  is  simple  in  the  extreme.  He  chooses  a 
straight  line,  and  sticks  to  it  across  all  obstacles  with 
uncompromising  rectitude,  and  the  worse  the  ground  the 
safer  he  is;  for  then  the  distance  rapidly  widens  between 
him  and  his  pursuers.  When  the  hunters  are  far  behind 
the  wolf  relaxes  his  pace  to  a  quiet  trot,  and  finally  takes 
a  rest,  not  troubling  himself  much  if  one  or  two  of  the 
foremost  dogs  reach  him,  for  he  will  give  them  a  sharp 
bite  or  two  that  will  deprive  them  of  any  wish  to  vex 
him  again.  It  is  generally  agreed  in  France  that  it  is 
not  of  much  use  to  follow  a  wolf  with  dogs  alone,  on  the 
principle  of  English  fox-hunting,  so  the  hunters  are 
armed  with  rifles,  and  if  the  wolf  is  killed  at  all,  which 
does  not  happen  in  every  hunt,  a  bullet  is  the  invariable 
cause  of  death.  But  then  in  France  they  have  not  the 
true  wolf-hound.  In  Russia  and  Poland  they  have  better 
dogs  very  likely,  but  on  this  point  I  am  not  able  to  inform 
the  reader,  not  having  been  in  Russia. 

It  happens  from  time  to  time  that  an  attempt  is  made 
to  bring  up  a  wolf  like  a  dog.  These  attempts  succeed 
up  to  a  certain  point.  One  of  the  most  remarkable 
instances  occurred  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Bordeaux, 
where  a  grand  veneur  brought  up  a  black  woli-cub,  a 
bitch,  along  with  his  young  dogs,  in  perfect  liberty.  She 


1 68  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 

went  out  hunting  with  the  dogs,  and  enjoyed  the  chase 
extremely,  except  when  the  purpose  of  the  expedition 
was  a  wolf-hunt,  to  which  she  had  honourable  objections. 
She  behaved  charmingly  in  the  kennel,  and  her  only 
fault  was  sheep-killing,  a  crime  she  committed  whenever 
the  opportunity  offered.  A  tamer  of  wild  animals 
(Martin)  harnessed  a  pair  of  French  wolves  to  a  carriage, 
and  they  behaved  well  when  the  voice  only  was  used  to 
command  them,  but  when  they  heard  the  whip  they 
snapped  at  each  other  with  their  teeth,  and  it  appears 
that  the  sledge-dogs  in  the  Arctic  regions  have  the  same 
characteristic.  Indeed,  it  appears  doubtful  whether 
those  animals,  although  we  call  them  dogs,  are  not  in 
reality  a  species  of  wolf.  They  do  not  bark,  and 
according  to  Captain  Parry  their  anatomy  is  -exactly 
that  of  the  wolf.  This  suddenness  in  snapping  at  each 
other  under  the  belief  that  the  whip  stroke  is  a  hostile 
attack  on  the  part  of  their  companion  is  strictly  a  wolfish 
characteristic.  I  have  observed  hybrids  which  were 
descended  from  an  union  of  dog  and  wolf  which  it  was 
most  dangerous  to  caress  on  account  of  the  suddenness 
with  which  they  would  use  their  teeth  on  the  least  suspi- 
cion of  your  intentions. 

Though  the  wolf  is  a  robber,  and  we  do  our  best  to 
prevent  him  from  injuring  the  domesticated  animals 
which  belong  to  us  and  contribute  to  our  wealth,  it 
would  be  difficult  for  any  just  person  not  to  have  a 
feeling  ot  great  sympathy  for  him.  The  wolf  in  modern 
Europe,  the  last  of  the  wild  beasts  dangerous  to  the 


WOLVES.  169 


larger  animals  and  to  man,  is  in  a  position  as  false  as 
that  of  a  baron  of  the  Middle  Ages  would  be  if  he  could 
come  back  again  to  his  castk  in  the  middle  of  modern 
Germany.  After  all,  the  wolf  has  but  one  real  fault, 
that  of  being  a  carnivorous  animal,  appreciating  mutton, 
and,  unfortunately  neither  having  money  nor  knowing 
the  use  of  it,  he  is  unable  to  go  to  the  butcher  as  we 
do.  Compare  with  him,  for  instance,  the  most  refined 
and  delicate  of  God's  creatures, — a  pretty  young  lady 
with  a  good  healthy  appetite,  and  no  convictions  on 
the  subject  of  vegetarianism.  She  eats  mutton,  too, 
and  many  other  kinds  of  animal  food,  only  she  eats 
them  prettily  with  a  knife  and  fork,  and  the  mutton, 
&c.,  have  been  bought  at  a  shop,  already  slaughtered 
for  her  use.  The  wolf  has  an  appetite  even  yet  more 
vigorous,  and  scarcely  any  legal  means  of  satisfying  it. 
He  has  no  money,  he  has  no  profession,  like  the  dog,  by 
which  to  earn  a  respectable  existence.  When  the  long, 
terrible  winter  comes,  he  can  only  live  by  robbery,  and 
can  we  blame  him  if  he  satisfies  an  imperious  appetite, 
an  appetite  of  an  intensity  probably  unknown  to  any  of 
us  ?  He  has  to  be  his  own  butcher,  and  to  snatch  his 
prey  from  the  hands  of  his  deadliest  enemies.  In 
managing  this  he  gives  proof  of  infinite  address,  and  a 
kind  of  prudent  boldness  which  is  the  wisest  policy  for  a 
creature  in  his  situation.  If  he  behaves  distrustfully  to 
man,  has  he  not  ample  reason  ?  What  have  men  ever 
done  for  him  or  his  race  ?  Have  they  not  hunted  and 
persecuted  him  since  the  world  began,  stamped  him  out 

W 


1 70  CHAP  TER S  ON  ANIM4LS. 

of  existence  in  England,  and  in  the  rest  of  Europe  driven 
him  into  the  hungry  wilderness  ?  Fortunately  for  him 
he  has  the  instincts  of  association,  and  so  does  not  live 
utterly  in  solitude. 

We  have  all  of  us  read  of  those  terrible  occurrences  in 
Russia  when  a  pack  of  wolves  pursue  a  sledge  as  harriers 
follow  a  hare."  It  is  in  scenes  of  that  kind  that  the  animal 
becomes  truly  terrible.  There  was  a  real  battle  between 
men  and  wolves  in  Russia  in  the  year  1812,  and  the 
wolves  gained  an  unquestionable  victory,  for  they  killed 
every  one  of  their  enemies,  neither  giving  nor  receiving 
quarter.  On  the  field  of  battle  after  the  combat  there 
lay  eighty  human  corpses,  soldiers,  their  muskets  strewn 
upon  the  snow,  their  bayonets  red  with  blood,  and  round 
them  a  ring  of  two  hundred  wolves  that  they  had 
slaughtered.  I  think  that  battle  must  have  been  the 
grandest  to  witness  that  human  soldiers  ever  fought. 
Fancy  it  raging  in  the  depth  of  that  Muscovite  solitude, 
man  and  beast — man  and  beast — man  and  beast  in 
mortal  combat,  till  the  men  had  all  fallen  except  ten, 
till  of  these  ten  there  remained  only  five,  three,  two,  one, 
and  that  last  one  fighting  alone  for  the  last  minutes  of 
his  doomed  existence, — alone  with  his  seventy-nine  com- 
rades serving  for  a  horrible  repast  around  him,  and  the 
irresistible  wolf-army  howling,  and  leaping,  and  gnashing 
innumerable  teeth  ! 

In  France  there  is  little  danger  of  such  tragic  events 
as  this.  There  are  really  not  very  many  wolves  in 
France,  certainly  not  enough  to  make  dangerously  large 


WOLVES.  171 


bands.  M.  d'Esterno  calculates  (on  very  certain  data, 
since  a  reward  is  given  for  every  wolf  that  is  killed, 
and  accounts  are  kept  of  these  rewards)  that  1860 
wolves  are  killed  every  year  in  the  whole  country.  Of 
these,  820  are  cubs,  and  even  the  young  adolescents  (in 
French,  louvards)  are  counted  as  old  wolves,  so  that  the 
real  old  wolves  are  not  probably  more  than  300.  After 
a  calculation  of  probabilities  with  which  I  need  not 
trouble  the  reader,  M.  d'Esterno  arrives  at  the  conclusion 
that  the  total  number  of  births  in  the  wolf- tribe  in  France 
in  the  course  of  one  year,  can  scarcely  exceed  3000. 
Now,  since  the  area  of  France  exceeds  200,000  square 
miles,  one  wolf  is  born  every  year  in  sixty-seven  square 
miles  of  territory,  which  is  not  an  alarming  vulpine  po- 
pulation. Indeed,  the  wolf  would  be  extinct  in  France 
already,  were  it  not  for  an  institution  which  was  especially 
created  for  his  destruction,  but  which  has  ended  in  his 
preservation.  Certain  gentlemen  of  fortune  are  appointed 
lonvetiers  (wolf-hunters),  and  the  royal  authority,  which 
first  instituted  them,  was  supposed  by  loyal  fiction  to 
intervene  for  the  protection  of  the  peasant  against  a 
noxious  animal.  However,  the  fact  is,  that  the  louvctiers 
look  upon  a  wolf  precisely  as  an  English  gentleman  in 
Leicestershire  looks  upon  a  fox.  The  administration  of 
woods  and  forests,  too,  is  favourable  to  the  preservation 
of  the  wolf,  because  a  forest  lets  better  for  shooting  when 
wolves  are  known  to  exist  in  it ;  and  a  powerful  admin- 
istration of  that  kind  has  many  means  of  influence.  If 
a  louvetier  were  to  take  his  occupation  seriously,  and 


1 72  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 


really  try  to  exterminate  the  wolves,  he  would  find  him- 
self hampered  at  every  turn  by  a  set  of  rules  contrived 
for  that  special  purpose.  It  is  settled,  for  example,  that 
a  louvetier  can  only  hunt  in  his  own  district,  and  that 
when  he  hunts  in  woods  belonging  to  anybody  else  he 
can  only  do  it  on  a  day  fixed  beforehand,  for  which  he 
requires  a  special  permission  from  the  prefect  of  his 
department  The  chase,  too,  must  be  conducted  in  the 
presence  of  foresters  and  gendarmes.  All  these  con- 
trivances ensure  the  safety  of  the  old  wolves,  which  easily 
get  out  of  the  limits  fixed,  and  have  due  notice,  as  they 
are  not  hunted  when  first  discovered,  and  there  can  be 
little  doubt  that  the  whole  official  organisation  is  strictly 
wolf-conservative.  If  we  had  wolves  in  England,  and 
were  accustomed  to  the  exciting  sport  which  they  afford, 
it  is  likely  that  we  also  should  have  an  influential  party 
in  favour  of  their  preservation. 

I  regret  to  have  had  so  little  to  say  in  this  paper 
concerning  the  wolf  in  fine  art,  but  the  fact  is  that  with 
the  exception  of  the  she-wolf  who  suckled  Romulus  and 
Remus,  of  which  an  antique  statue  remains  to  us,  and 
the  wolves  in  great  hunting-pieces  in  painting  and 
tapestry  suitable  for  the  decoration  of  country-houses, 
the  animal  has  not  figured  very  largely  either  in  paint- 
ing or  sculpture,  and  is  not  generally  very  intimately 
known  to  artists.  English  painters  see  him  at  the  Zoo- 
logical Gardens,  Continental  ones  occasionally  have  the 
advantage  of  seeing  him  in  his  native  forests,  but  only 
by  glimpses.  He  is  more  useful  in  poetry  than  in  paint- 


WOLVES.  173 


ing,  because  when  skilfully  introduced  in  verse,  he  may  be 
made  to  give  very  powerful  effects  of  savage  wildness.  The 
association  of  his  dreaded  name  with  hungry  solitudes, 
covered  with  inhospitable  snow,  with  the  desperation 
of  flying  steeds,  with  uncounted  quantity  of  pitiless  pur- 
suers, makes  it  enough  simply  to  mention  him  at  the 
right  time  to  enhance  a  poetical  effect  very  cleverly; 
whilst  such  is  the  tradition  of  his  fame  that  when  your 
horse  breaks  into  a  wild  gallop  at  wintry  midnight,  and 
your  companion  points  to  the  next  field  and  whispers, 
'  The  wolves  !'  and  you  see  them  dimly  in  the  pale  snow- 
light,  there  comes  a  thrill,  not  so  much  of  fear  as  of  an  old 
poetry  that  has  descended  to  you  through  all  the  gene- 
rations of  our  race. 


174 


CHAPTER  XI. 

KIDS. 

EVER  since  men  began  to  observe  the  ways  of  animals, 
and  this  is  going  very  far  back  into  the  past,  for  mankind 
has  loved  and  studied  animals  from  its  earliest  infancy, 
they  have  recognised  some  marked  moral  characteristics 
as  belonging  in  quite  a  special  sense  to  each  of  the  species 
which  they  knew.  In  the  old  fables  which  have  come 
down  to  us  through  various  transformations,  the  animals 
are,  as  it  were,  so  many  well-known  characters  in  a  little 
drama,  each  character  being  strongly  marked  by  one  or 
two  striking  traits  which  are  never  forgotten,  and  which 
universal  consent  has  accepted  as  typically  accurate.  In 
the  mediaeval  fable  this  dramatic  arrangement  of  the 
animals  most  familiar  to  the  people  of  Western  Europe 
takes  its  most  clear  and  perfect  form.  The  animals 
become,  severally,  personages  with  names,  and  a  style 
suitable  to  their  supposed  rank  in  the  animal  hierarchy. 
Neither  the  narrators  of  mediaeval  fable,  nor  their  hearers, 
ever  seem  to  have  imagined  the  possible  objection  that 
there  might  be  a  variety  of  character  amongst  animals  of 


KIDS.  175 

one  species.  They  simply  took  the  species  as  a  whole, 
fixed  upon  one  salient  characteristic,  and  gave  this  salient 
characteristic  as  the  whole  nature  of  the  typical  bear,  or 
fox,  or  cat,  who  became  Monsieur  Berenger,  or  Maitre 
Renard,  or  Madame  Tibert.  Then  with  the  characters 
obtained  by  this  process,  they  made  up  their  little  play, 
which  had  the  immense  advantage  of  simple  dramatis 
persona,  easily  remembered,  each  strikingly  unlike  every 
other,  and,  therefore,  easily  grasped  by  the  popular  intel- 
ligence and  retained  by  the  popular  memory. 

Now,  this  way  of  estimating  the  characters  of  animals 
is  not  a  bad  way  to  begin  with,  but  it  is  altogether  rudi- 
mentary. It  is  true,  to  a  certain  extent,  that  every  animal 
is  marked  by  some  one  of  those  characteristics  which  are 
to  be  found  in  the  manifold  nature  of  man ;  but  no  one 
who  had  studied  animals  could  be  entirely  satisfied  with 
such  a  rough  indication  of  one  salient  attribute  as  a  de- 
scription of  animal  character.  For  example,  in  popular 
fable  and  tradition,  the  unlucky  goat  always  stands  for 
uncleanness,  on  account  of  an  unfortunate  musk-like 
odour,  extremely  powerful,  and  to  us  certainly  most 
disagreeable,  but  which  may  be  tolerable  enough  to  or- 
gans differently  constituted.  This  is  man's  way  of  settling 
the  position  of  his  fellow-creatures  ;  he  dislikes  the  smell 
of  the  goat,  and  accuses  the  animal  of  exceptional  impu- 
rity, which  accusation  is  otherwise  utterly  unfounded.  Ij: 
is  to  be  regretted  that  we  cannot  learn  the  goat's  opinion 
concerning  the  odour  of  man,  for  there  is  no  doubt  that 
man  has  a  very  strong  odour,  and  one  which  is  most 


76  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 


offensive  to  many  animals.  It  has  been  remarked  farther, 
by  naturalists,  that  this  odour  is  not  diminished  by  clean- 
liness, but  is  inherent  in  man's  very  constitution.  I  think, 
then,  that  this  question  of  odour,  as  affecting  the  charac- 
ter of  the  goat,  had  better  be  left  out  of  our  calculations 
altogether,  for  there  is  nothing  positive  about  an  odour ; 
it  is  merely  a  matter  of  relation  between  our  olfactory 
nerves  and  the  fine  floating  particles  which  excite  them. 
The  scent  of  carrion  is  unpleasant  to  me,  but  it  is  cer- 
tainly not  unpleasant  to  my  dog  ;  and  he  is  quite  as  good- 
a  judge  as  I  am,  nay,  probably  even  by  far  the  better 
judge  of  the  two,  for  his  sense  of  scent  is  incomparably 
more  exquisite,  more  true,  more  critical,  more  refined, 
and  more  reliable  than  mine.  He  can  follow  me  through 
fields  and  woods,  across  a  thousand  contradictory  scents, 
by  the  sole  guidance  of  his  nose ;  and  I  could  not  follow 
him  a  single  yard  by  the  help  of  my  nose.  Let  us,  there- 
fore, learn  a  certain  modesty  in  judging  of  other  beings, 
which,  though  so  near  to  us,  and  so  much  beneath  us  as 
it  seems,  and  so  entirely  in  our  power,  live  in  truth  in  so 
many  different  worlds.  The  goat  lives  in  goat-world,  the 
dog  lives  in  dog- world,  the  donkey  in  donkey- world. 
What  I  should  like  to  do  for  myself  and  the  reader,  if  it 
were  possible,  would  be  to  get  a  true  glimpse  or  two  of 
each  of  these  strange  worlds,  so  different  from  ours,  and 
so  difficult  for  the  wisest  of  us  to  understand. 

Thackeray  used  to  contemn  the  indifference  of  certain 
wealthy  families  (who  in  this  differed  most  widely  from 
the  lady  who  is  the  head  of  English  society)  for  every- 


KIDS.  177 

thing  that  concerned  their  servants.  Not  to  know,  or  care 
anything  about  the  poor  people  who  live  under  our  roofs, 
and  do  our  work  for  us,  and  spare  us  every  day  a  thou- 
sand annoyances, hindrances,  and  delays;  making  life  quite 
smooth  and  easy  for  us,  so  that  we  have  leisure  both  for 
study  and  for  amusement ;  not  to  know  or  care  anything 
about  these  people,  to  whose  faithful  service  we  owe  so 
much  (and  we  are  often  ignorant  even  of  their  very 
names),  seemed  to  Thackeray  a  sort  of  plague-spot  in  our 
society,  and  a  grievous  scandal  and  wrong.  In  the  same 
way  I  have  often  thought,  whilst  noticing  the  stupid  and 
cruel  way  in  which  animals  are  treated ;  the  almost  con- 
stant habit  of  using  them  merely  as  things,  and  not  as  if 
they  had  the  feelings  and  characters  of  individual  beings, 
that  we  have  other  servants  besides  human  ones,  who 
deserve  more  consideration  than  they  get. 

Of  goats  in  their  maturity  we  shall  have  something  to 
say  in  another  chapter,  but  for  the  present  I  content 
myself  with  speaking  of  them  in  their  infancy  or  kidhood. 
The  main  characteristic  of  the  kid,  considered  indivi- 
dually, is  his  very  remarkable  precocity,  and  the  surpris- 
ing readiness  with  which  he  adapts  himself  to  his  new 
situation,  and  acquires  the  knowledge  necessary  to  it. 
Early  on  some  April  morning,  let  us  suppose,  he  finds 
his  way  into  the  world,  just  as  the  sun  is  beginning  to 
drink  the  dew  from  the  early  flowers.  For  the  first  quarter 
of  an  hour  he  is  uncomfortable  enough,  and  looks,  as  he 
lies  on  the  ground,  from  right  to  left  in  an  unsteady  and 
uncertain  manner,  his  general  appearance  reminding  one  of 


178  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 

a  half- drowned  rat  still  giddy  from  the  effects  of  asphyxia. 
After  a  while,  however,  he  gets  up  and  tries  to  walk 
about  a  little ;  at  first  not  elegantly,  but  somewhat  after 
the  manner  of  a  school-boy  upon  stilts.  For  the  moment 
the  poor  kid  is  a  type  of  weakness  aud  inexperience  ;  he 
staggers  about  like  a  kid  inebriated,  and  hits  his  muzzle 
against  any  obstacle  that  may  come  in  his  way.  He 
rapidly,  however,  in  kid-fashion,  acquires  the  precious 
science  of  perspective,  and  sufficiently  explains  to  him- 
self what  those  marvellous  patches  of  colour  all  about  him 
stand  for.  Very  soon,  of  course,  by  the  infallible  instinct 
of  nature,  he  finds  his  way  to  the  maternal  teat,  and  gets 
his  first  long,  refreshing,  strengthening  draught  of  milk. 
The  good  that  first  drink  does  to  a  young  kid  is  magical. 
After  it  he  makes  his  first  caper — the  first  of  ten  thou- 
sand capers — and  becomes  a  new  being.  He  begins  to 
explore  things,  to  wander  about  his  mother's  legs,  which 
at  first  appear  to  him  only  in  the  light  of  pillars  support- 
ing a  great  milk-cistern,  and  to  make  acquaintance  with 
his  brothers  or  sisters,  if  he  has  any. 

And  now  begins  that  beautiful  fraternal  life  of  the 
young  kid,  than  which  nothing  in  nature  is  more  lovely. 
Suppose  a  litter  of  three  kids  all  together.  Of  all  types 
of  tender  brotherhood  and  sisterhood  I  think  they  are 
the  most  perfect.  I  knew  a  Scotchman  who  always  called 
his  children  his  kids,  which,  I  believe,  is  not  an  uncom- 
mon practice  in  the  south  of  Scotland  and  in  Ireland  ; 
and  since  I  have  become  more  familiar  with  the  ways  of 
animals,  the  idea  of  kid  life  seems  to  me  not  at  all  a  bad 


KIDS.  179 


one  to  set  before  young  children.  With  all  the  eloquence 
of  gesture,  and  of  the  most  beautiful  grouping  possible, 
three  kids  of  the  same  litter  continually  express  the  ful- 
ness of  fraternal  affection.  Why  they  love  each  other  so 
very  dearly,  and  as  soon  as  they  first  really  see  each 
other,  is  one  of  the  divine  mysteries  of  the  instincts,  but 
it  is  so ;  there  is  no  doubt  or  question  about  it.  Their 
life  is  a  sweet  alternation  of  play  and  rest,  play  and  rest, 
play  together  and  rest  together ;  nor  can  play  more 
joyous,  or  rest  more  perfect,  be  found  in  all  the  realm  of 
nature. 

In  their  grouping,  merely  from  the  instinct  of  imitation, 
and,  of  course,  without  the  slightest  intention  or  con- 
scious preference,  they  constantly  arrange  themselves  with. 
a  wonderful  and  beautiful  symmetry.  If  there  are  two 
kids,  one  puts  himself  in  a  certain  position,  looking,  let 
us  say,  from  the  left  of  the  spectator  to  his  right ;  in  this 
case  the  other  is  pretty  sure  to  come  and  put  himself 
exactly  in  the  same  attitude,  but  looking  from  right  to 
left.  If  there  are  three  kids,  the  third  will  make  a  centre- 
piece of  himself,  whilst  the  two  others  group  instinctively 
as  symmetrical  supports.  I  have  seen  a  hundred  na- 
tural groupings  of  this  kind  invented  by  three  kids  which 
belonged  to  me  last  year,  all  of  which  were  quite  sym- 
metrical enough  in  arrangement  for  the  severest  Greek 
ornamentation,  and  yet  perfectly  free  and  natural  at  the 
same  time.  Not  even  the  most  studied  arrangements  of 
the  dance  exhibit  combinations  more  gracefully  and 
artistically  perfect. 


i8o  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 

Like  all  young  things,  kids  are  extremely  inquisitive, 
and  whenever  one  of  them  thinks  it  has  made  a  discovery, 
the  others  always  immediately  determine  to  find  out  all 
about  the  new  subject  of  interest.  In  my  goat-house 
there  is  a  hay-rack,  placed  low  enough  to  be  conven- 
iently accessible  for  the  full-grown  animals,  but  rather 
high  for  young  kids  who  are  supposed  to  be  nurtured  on 
the  maternal  milk.  One  of  the  kids,  in  the  spirit  of  ex- 
ploration which  characterises  them,  put  its  fore-paws 
against  the  wall,  and  got  its  head  level  with  the  bottom 
of  the  rack ;  on  which  another,  desiring  to  imitate  the 
first,  in  exactly  the  same  place,  could  only  manage  it  by 
getting  on  his  brother's  back.  The  same  desire  took 
possession  of  their  sister,  who  got  upon  the  back  of 
number  two.  It  is  evident  that  only  the  first  of  the 
three  could  reach  the  hay,  so  that  the  two  others  re- 
mained in  a  state  of  unavailing  aspiration.  They  reminded 
me  of  the  consequence  of  imitation  in  literature  and  the 
fine  arts.  An  original  artist  has  access  for  himself  to 
nature,  but  his  imitators  think  to  get  at  the  hay  by  climb- 
ing upon  his  back,  which  is  just  the  way  not  to  get  at 
it.  There  is  plenty  of  it  to  right  and  left,  if  they  would 
go  to  it  for  themselves. 

Sometimes  the  experiments  made  by  a  set  of  inqui- 
sitive kids  must  of  necessity  be  successive.  For  example, 
if  there  is  a  basket  in  the  place  which  will  hold  one  of 
them,  and  no  more,  the  others  watch  him  with  great 
interest ;  and  as  soon  as  he  jumps  out  (which  he  is  never 
very  long  in  doing),  the  others  inevitably  jump  in  and 


KIDS.  181 


out  again  by  turns.  A  game  of  this  kind  will  last  till 
one  of  the  kids  has  a  new  suggestion  to  make,  which  his 
brethren  are  sure  to  adopt;  for  they  are  always  very 
ready  in  adopting  any  suggestion  which  promises  a  va- 
riety in  their  amusements.  It  became  the  fashion  one  day 
amongst  my  kids  to  carry  a  little  sprig  of  green  between 
the  lips  ;  and  a  very  pretty  fashion  it  was,  from  a  painter's 
point  of  view,  as  it  supplied  a  most  refreshing  touch  of 
colour  amongst  the  blacks  and  greys.  There  is  a  certain 
impudence  and  fearlessness  about  kids  which  is  often  both 
laughable  and  charming.  One  day,  whilst  I  was  at  work 
sketching,  the  kids  took  it  into  their  heads  to  try  to  upset 
my  seat  by  getting  under  it,  and  lifting  me  up  with  their 
not  very  Samson-like  shoulders.  This  they  tried  in  turn  ; 
but,  not  being  powerful  enough  to  succeed,  turned  their 
attention  to  my  great  dog,  who  lay  by  me  contemplating 
their  gambols  with  a  sort  of  half  tolerance  mingled  with 
disdain.  First  one  kid  came  up  to  Tom,  and  brought 
his  tiny  visage  in  contact  with  Tom's  astonished  physi- 
ognomy ;  then  another  tried  the  same  experiment ;  and 
finally,  of  course,  the  third  tried  it.  At  last  the  dog's 
dignity  could  stand  it  no  longer,  and  he  rushed  out  of  the 
place,  not  trusting  himself  to  refrain  from  using  his  mighty 
jaws,  which  would  have  crushed  a  kid's  head  like  a  nut- 
shell. 

Most  young  things  (young  crocodiles  and  some  other 
reptiles  excepted)  appear  to  be  reservoirs  of  pent-up 
natural  energy  that  finds  vent  in  irrepressible  gambols. 
Of  all  active  young  creatures  intimately  known  to  me, 


1 82  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 


kids  are  the  most  active.  When  they  seem  to  be  per- 
fectly still  and  reasonable,  a  spring  is  touched,  and  they 
bound  straight  up  as  if  the  earth  had  suddenly  become 
elastic  and  thrown  them  towards  the  sky  like  projectiles. 
They  pass  from  moods  of  venturesome  and  reckless  frolic 
to  moods  of  extreme  caution.  When  in  the  latter,  they 
studiously  examine  some  object  in  the  place  where  they 
are  confined,  and  the  boldest  of  them  approaches  it  first, 
ready,  however,  to  withdraw  upon  any  appearance  of 
danger.  The  others  follow  behind,  at  regular  intervals. 
In  all  this  they  are  doing  in  play  what  they  will  have  to 
do  in  earnest  in  after-life.  The  gambols  prepare  them 
for  the  bold  leaping  amongst  rocks  and  precipices,  whilst 
the  ectaireurwork  prepares  them  for  the  duty  of  a  prudent 
sentinel  when  the  wolves  are  near  in  the  mysterious  and 
deceptive  moonlight 

If  kids  compose  beautifully  in  action,  I  think  they  do 
so  still  more  beautifully  in  repose.  The  expression  of 
fraternal  trust  and  affection  is  strongest,  by  far,  in  their 
moments  of  perfect  rest.  They  lay  their  heads  upon 
each  other's  bodies,  as  upon  pillows,  and  pass  in  an  in- 
stant to  the  land  of  innocent  dreams ;  where,  no  doubt, 
they  play  over  again,  in  fancy,  the  wild  gambols  that 
have  brought  them  this  sweet  weariness.  The  attitudes 
of  rest  are  varied  beyond  all  imagination  of  painter  or  of 
poot,  and  often  quaintly  original  to  a  degree  which  no 
invention  could  suggest.  What  they  express  most  com- 
monly is  mutuality,  the  interchange  of  the  same  offices  of 
kindness  and  perfect  trust.  Kids  have  a  way  of  compos- 


KIDS.  183 

ing  themselves  symmetrically  in  repose  as  they  have  in 
active  recreation,  so  that  the  designers  of  classic  panels 
for  some  sylvan  temple  or  retreat  would  have  little  else 
to  do  than  to  copy  their  natural  groupings  in  order  to  pro- 
duce works  quite  in  harmony  with  the  symmetrical  classic 
taste-.  The  heads  have  an  inevitable  way  of  clustering 
together,  and  the  throat  of  one  kid  is  always  sure  to  lie 
aero  s  the  neck  of  another.  If  there  are  three,  the  heads 
often  make  three  steps  from  the  ground  upwards ;  one 
lying  on  the  ground  itself,  the  other  two  rising  behind  it, 
something  like  the  heads  of  clerk,  curate,  and  preacher, 
in  an  old-fashioned  English  church. 

In  conclusion,  I  should  say  that  kids  are  typical  of  two 
things  mainly,  innocent  gaiety  and  fraternal  affection. 
One  is  accustomed  to  consider  them  pretty,  and  no  doubt 
they  produce  on  the  mind  a  complex  effect  which  we  call 
prettiness,  but  it  would  be  difficult  to  prove  to  any  one 
who  did  not  love  them  that  they  possessed  the  attributes 
of  beauty.  Few  young  animals  are  really  beautiful, 
though  most  of  them  are  extremely  interesting.  Beauty 
appears  to  have  been  reserved  for  the  perfected  form, 
whilst  the  immature  form  has  to  be  satisfied  with  a  sort 
of  hint  of  it,  or  approximation  to  it.  The  head  of  the 
kid  is  more  beautiful  than  that  of  the  mature  animal,  but 
its  body  is,  in  truth,  very  ungainly.  I  have  never  seen 
this  ungainliness  more  strikingly  exemplified  than  when 
young  kids  tried  to  stand  on  a  waxed  floor,  as  slippery 
as  ice  ;  but  this  awkwardness  has  a  certain  charm,  and 
attaches  us  to  young  animals  by  its  expression  of  weak- 


184  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 

ness,  immaturity,  and  imperfection.  Much  of  the  imper- 
fection in  the  form  of  kids  is  compensated  for,  or  dis- 
guised by  beautiful  markings  in  the  colouring  of  the  hair. 
No  animal  affords  finer  studies  of  black  and  white,  varie- 
gated by  delicate  warm  and  cold  greys.  Lines  of  white 
are  often  sharply  reserved,  especially  down  each  side 
of  the  face,  and  on  other  parts  of  the  body  there  are 
fanciful  patches,  or  soft  gradations  of  a  kind  often  quite 
as  delightful  to  a  painter  as  the  beautiful  markings  of 
creatures  much  more  elegantly  constructed.  And  although 
a  kid  is'decidedly  not  elegant  in  form,  it  is  quite  as  much 
so  as  a  foal  even  of  the  most  distinguished  race.  In  both 
these  animals  the  only  really  beautiful  part  is  the  head, 
and  we  accept  the  rest  with  a  sort  of  hopeful  indulgence, 
with  which  is  mingled  not  a  little  tenderness  of  affection 
like  that  we  have  for  the  imperfect  language  of  young 
children.  The  heads  of  kids  often  remind  us  of  the  beau- 
tiful heads  of  deer.  There  is  a  sweetness,  a  refinement 
about  them  which  disappears  later ;  besides  which  the 
head  of  a  kid  is  more  intelligent  than  that  of  the  mature 
animal,  the  forehead  is  larger  in  proportion,  and  the  eyes, 
though  not  so  brilliant  and  decided  in  their  colouring,  are 
better  placed,  and  have  not  that  vacant  expression  they 
often  acquire  in  maturity.  The  extreme  mobility  of  the 
ears,  which  are  often  extremely  beautiful  both  in  shape 
and  texture,  and  lined  with  a  delicate  .fur,  adds  greatly 
to  the  liveliness  of  the  expression.  Kids  have  a  sharp, 
wide-awake  look,  which  not  unfrequently  degenerates 
into  blank  stupidity  in  the  mature  animal.  The  same 


KIDS.  185 

thing  may  be  observed  sometimes  in  the  human  race  ; 
amongst  the  heavy,  stolid  races  of  mankind  the  children 
seem  more  intelligent  than  their  parents,  but  gradually 
lose  this  intelligence  (which  is  mere  liveliness)  as  they 
grow  older,  duller,  and  less  easily  moved  or  awakened. 
'  It  would  be  easy  to  criticise  the  kid's  mouth,  and  if  any 
one  chose  to  affirm  that  the  projections  of  the  lower  jaw, 
and  the  flattening  about  the  nostrils,  were  ungraceful,  it 
would  be  in  vain  to  argue  the  point ;  yet  in  this,  as  in  so 
many  other  things,  nature  produces  a  pretty  and  harmo- 
nious whole  by  parts  which,  taken  separately,  are  not 
absolutely  in  accordance  with  our  preconceived  notions 
of  beauty.  I  think  it  might  be  argued,  however,  that  the 
delicately  cut  openings  of  the  nostrils  themselves  and  the 
sharp  line  between  them,  and  the  projected  curve  of  the 
lip,  are  beautiful,  at  any  rate  in  the  best  examples. 

If  you  pass  from  the  head  to  the  body  you  can  scarcely 
fail  to  admire  the  fawn-like  beauty  of  the  neck,  and  a  fine 
curve  in  it  often  seen  from  behind.  In  the  mature  animal 
the  neck  becomes  more  nearly  horizontal,  and  much  less 
graceful,  so  that  the  head  is  not  carried  so  elegantly, 
There  is  a  mixture  of  elegance  and  pride  (if  so  utterly 
innocent  a  creature  as  a  kid  could  feel  anything  like 
pride)  in  the  way  it  holds  its  head,  especially  in  the  atti- 
tude of  attention  ;  and  much  of  this  is  due  to  the  position 
of  the  neck,  often  nearly  vertical,  with  a  sharp  little  curve 
where  it  joins  the  skull,  which  gives  a  valuable  accent  in 
a  drawing.  The  body  has  no  beauty  of  form,  it  is  too 
thin  for  that ;  and  the  legs  are  mere  stilts,  as  awkward  as 

Y 


186  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 

legs  can  be ;  but  we  forget  these  deficiencies  entirely  for 
the  sake  of  the  exquisite  naivete  which  marks  every 
movement  of  the  creature,  and  which  attaches  us  to  it 
from  the  first  No  one  who  has  the  genuine  love  of  ani- 
mals can  resist  the  attractiveness  of  kids ;  and  when 
once  you  love  them  their  shapelessness  is  utterly  forgotten. 
You  may  prove  that  they  are  ugly  by  logic,  but  you  feel 
that  they  are  loveable  and  delightful,  and  by  a  common 
confusion  you  say  that  they  are  beautiful.  And  in  the 
strictest  truth  they  are  beautiful ;  not,  however,  with  the 
beauty  which  a  designer  or  a  sculptor  specially  cares  for, 
but  with  that  which  a  painter  loves.  The  goat,  in  all  the 
stages  of  his  existence,  is  especially  a  painter's  animal. 
No  creature  surpasses  him  in  the  pictorial  beauty  of  his 
hair.  For  sharp  and  brilliant  contrasts,  fine  markings, 
soft  gradations,  rich  varieties  of  warm  and  cold  greys,  the 
covering  of  the  goat  incomparably  surpasses  that  of  every 
other  domestic  animal,  whilst  its  texture  is  tempting  in 
the  extreme.  In  kids  you  have  all  this  beauty  with  a 
freshness  and  newness  which  is  their  own.  As  there  is  a 
perfection  of  unspoiled  newness  in  the  thin,  rosy,  delica- 
tely marked  skin  of  a  baby's  fingers,  so  the  kid  possesses 
a  fur  quite  fresh  from  the  stores  of  Nature,  with  the  curve 
of  every  hair  in  crisp  perfection,  exactly  in  its  right  place. 
How  snowy  the  white  is  !  how  intensely  sable  the  black  ! 
how  delicately  opportune  the  sprinkling  of  badger-like 
greys  !  how  fine  the  thin  pencillings  where  the  hair  is 
glossy  and  close  !  how  full  and  rich  the  shadowy  colour 
where  it  is  tufted  ! 


KIDS.  187 

I  have  not  space  to  say  much  about  kids  and  the 
poets ;  but  it  is  clear  that  the  poets  have  always  loved 
them,  and  spoken  of  them  tenderly  as  amongst  the  most 
innocent  and  happy  things  in  the  sylvan  and  pastoral 
world.  The  gods  loved  kids,  too,  but  in  a  manner  which 
perpetually  led  to  their  death  on  the  altar  by  the  hand  of 
some  sacrificing  priest.  How  could  he  bear,  I  wonder,  to 
see  the  warm,  innocent  blood  trickling  red  over  the 
altar's  edge  ?  The  most  innocent  things  were  ever 
chosen  to  propitiate  the  angry  gods,  and  bear  the  load  of 
human  iniquity — not  fierce  wolves,  nor  cunning  foxes, 
nor  serpents  with  poisonous  fangs,  but  tender-hearted, 
faithful  doves,  and  pure  white  lambs,  and  playful, 
fraternal  kids. 

I  think  there  ought  to  be,  in  every  house  where  there 
are  children,  some  picture  or  print  representing  young 
kids  nestling  close  to  each  other,  their  heads  reposing  on 
each  other,  in  that  sweet  peace  of  their  mutual  tender- 
ness and  trust.  We  English  people  have  been  accused 
of  having  weaker  fraternal  feeling  than  any  other  race ; 
and  it  is  said  that  the  feeling,  weak  as  it  is  already,  is 
becoming  feebler  still  by  a  gradual  atrophy  and  decline. 
If  this  is  so,  the  fact  is  a  melancholy  one,  and  we  need  a 
lesson  from  the  kids.  Liberty  and  equality  may  be 
unattainable  dreams,  but  we  may  realise  fraternity. 


188 


CHAPTER  XII. 

OTHER     ANIMALS. 

I  INTEND,  in  this  short  chapter,  to  say  a  few  words  about 
the  animals  of  which  I  know  or  care  least.  There  are 
sheep  and  goats,  for  instance,  of  which  I  know  a  good 
deal  from  long  ownership,  yet  never  cared  very  much  ; 
and  there  are  foxes  and  otters,  which  would  both  be  very 
interesting  studies,  but,  as  it  happens,  I  never  had  proper 
opportunities  for  studying  them.  The  reader  is  requested 
to  remember,  that  in  writing  these  cursory  chapters  I 
have  never  pretended  to  anything  like  completeness,  but 
have  merely  talked  in  a  desultory  way  about  a  few 
familiar  creatures  that  had  happened  to  come  within  the 
very  limited  range  of  my  own  personal  observation. 

A  very  experienced  picture-dealer  told  me  that,  so  far 
as  his  experience  went  (picture-dealers  take  note  of  these 
things),  the  most  popular  of  all  animals  in  rustic  pictures 
was  the  sheep.  Rabelais  would  no  doubt  have  given 
an  explanation  of  this  in  his  own  uncomplimentary 
way.  Rabelais  would  have  said  that  people  like  what 
resembles  themselves,  and  that  as  mankind  are  montons 
de  Panurge,  they  like  moutons  from  sympathy  and  simi- 


OTHER  ANIMALS.  189 

larity  of  nature.  If  it  were  possible  to  examine  all  the 
people  who  take  pleasure  in  sheep-pictures,  and  all  the 
other  people  who  feel  indifferent  to  them,  very  possibly 
it  might  be  found  that  the  fondness  for  sheep  was  asso- 
ciated with  a  certain  instinct  of  gregariousness,  and  that 
the  indifference  to  them  on  the  other  hand  prevailed 
most  amongst  people  who  are  apt  to  be  somewhat  dis- 
dainfully self-reliant.  I  fancy  (it  may  be  only  a  fancy) 
that  there  is  really  some  vague  association  between  the 
disdain  of  sheep  and  the  spirit  of  individualism.  Let 
me  not  be  understood  to  imply  that  such  individualism 
often  leads  to  disdain  of  the  Divine  sherpherding,  for 
no  one  who  considers  what  men  are,  and  what  God  must 
be,  can  fail  to  perceive  that,  relatively  to  the  mysterious 
and  awful  Power  that  made  us,  we  are  all  incomparably 
more  ignorant  and  stupid  than  sheep  are  relatively  to 
any  human  pastor.  But  I  do  think  that  this  indivi- 
dualism disinclines  us  to  accept  the  condition  of  sheepish- 
ness  in  general,  and  disposes  us  to  rebel  against  human 
authorities,  and  against  custom,  when  they  treat  us  as  if  we 
were  only  fit  to  be  penned,  and  fleeced,  and  slaughtered. 
Rabelais  hit  his  mark  when  he  noted  the  close 
resemblance  between  men  and  sheep  in  the  timid  fol- 
lowing of  others.  The  strongest  of  us  are  original  only 
in  a  few  things,  in  most  things  we  follow  the  crowd 
— a  sheepishness  quite  as  prevalent  in  free  countries 
as  under  despotism.  Not  that  it  would  be  better  other- 
wise ;  we  need  this  gregariousness  for  safety  and  for 
cohesion,  we  cannot  live  in  solitude  like  eagles. 


190  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 


It  is  not  their  gregariousness  that  I  dislike  in  sheep, 
but  their  poverty  of  wit  and  invention.  They  belie  the 
promise  of  their  spring.  If  you  had  never  seen  a  sheep, 
and  a  young  lamb  were  presented  to  you  for  the  first 
time,  would  you  not  augur  well  for  the  future  of  an 
animal  so  charmingly  merry  and  playful?  You  would 
say,  '  Here  is  a  creature  born  to  learn  all  things  rapidly, 
since  at  his  second  sunrise  he  is  already  so  much  at 
home  upon  the  earth.'  You  would  not  foresee  the  cloud 
of  dulness  which  comes  on  gradually  later,  like  a  cata- 
ract on  the  organs  of  vision,  and  obscures  the  narrow 
brain.  Is  there  anything  in  nature  lovelier  than  a 
pasture  in  early  spring,  dotted  with  lambs  like  snow- 
patches,  and  filling  the  pure  air  with  bleatings  ?  But 
every  day  they  become  less  charming  and  less  beautiful, 
and  at  last,  when  fully  fleeced,  they  present  scarcely 
more  form  than  a  hedgehog,  and  the  white  wool  is 
simply  dirty,  like  linen  that  has  been  worn  too  long. 
This  before  shearing — after  it  they  are  hideous  scare- 
crows. 

After  having  written  these  severe  things  about  sheep 
I  feel  some  twinges  of  remorse,  they  are  so  unpre- 
tending, innocent,  and  submissive.  '  As  a  sheep  to  the 
slaughter !  '  Could  any  one  see  the  flocks  of  them 
driven  townwards  without  pity  ?  From  the  green  pas- 
ture, and  the  summer  flowers,  and  the  limpid,  alder- 
shaded  rivulet,  along  the  dusty  highroad  to  the  streets 
of  the  great  city,  all  destined  to  the  inevitable  knife, 
they  come  in  their  meekness,  unresisting,  bringing  us 


OTHER  ANIMALS,  191 

food  and  raiment ;  and  day  by  day  flows  the  stream  of 
their  innocent  blood  ! 

In  the  last  chapter  I  may  have  become  somewhat 
disproportionately  garrulous  about  kids.  I  had  not  so 
much  to  say  of  goats,  and  deferred  it.  These  creatures 
certainly  decline  in  intelligence  as  they  approach  ma- 
turity, and  the  brain  of  the  full-grown  animal  is  rela- 
tively smaller,  whilst  the  skull  is  inferior  in  shape. 
Goats  are  remarkable  for  the  extreme  fidelity  with 
which  they  follow  you  ;  it  is  not  enough  to  say  that 
they  fellow  like  dogs,  they  are  much  closer  followers 
than  dogs  are.  But  I  doubt  if  they  ever  love  their 
masters  ;  it  is  certain  that  they  reject  caresses  with  the 
rudest  impatience.  They  are  most  stupid  creatures,  and 
will  butt  at  anything  that  attracts  their  attention  instead 
of  observing  it,  as  even  an  ox  will  in  his  own  dull  bovine 
way.  On  the  other  hand,  painters  may  well  like  goats, 
because  they  are  by  far  the  most  paintable  of  all  the 
rustic  animals.  They  are  full  of  fine  texture  from  horn 
to  hoof,  and  of  good  powerful  colouring,  incomparably 
superior  to  the  dirty  white  of  sheep,  whilst  their 
meagre  forms,  though  not  beautiful,  are  full  of  sinewy 
character. 

It  is  to  be  regretted  that  a  creature  so  marvellously 
intelligent  as  the  fox  should  live,  like  a  clever  Bohe- 
mian, beyond  the  pale  of  society.  However,  if  not  an 
associate  of  man,  he  is  an  object  of  great  respect,  almost 
of  positive  adoration,  and,  like  other  sacred  animals,  is 
frequently  depicted  in  the  art  of  the  land  that  pays 


192  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 

him  homage.  I  am  not  aware  that  the  tail  of  any  other 
creature  ever  gave  any  direct  spiritual  consolation  such 
as  a  fox's  brush  may,  it  appears,  afford  to  a  Leicester- 
shire gentleman  on  his  death-bed.  Mr.  Ruskin  mentions 
a  print  »in  which  that  symbol  of  the  religion  of  fox-hunt- 
ing is  held  before  the  eyes  of  a  dying  Englishman,  just 
as  a  crucifix  is  to  a  Spaniard.  Mr.  Frank  Buckland  has 
a  page  or  two  to  the  same  effect  There  cannot  be  any 
doubt  that  the  fox  is  a  sort  of  minor  deity  in  some  neigh- 
bourhoods, and  I  have  personally  known  men  in  the 
West  Riding  of  Yorkshire  who  worshipped  him — to  say 
the  least — with  a  cultus  quite  as  active  as  that  of  the 
Siamese  for  their  white  elephants.  They  certainly 
believed,  in  all  sincerity,  that  to  shoot  a  fox  was  a  real 
sin,  and  not  at  all  a  venial  one.  They  galloped  after  him 
three  days  a- week,  the  sight  of  his  tail  always  producing 
the  same  unfailing  enthusiasm;  they  talked  about  him 
during  the  other  three,  and  I  believe,  though  I  cannot 
exactly  prove  it,  that  they  thought  of  no  other  deity 
whilst  they  sat  in  the  parish  church — at  least  so  the 
Vicar  averred,  and  surely  he  ought  to  know.  The 
worship  of  the  fox  has  produced  its  own  school  of  fine 
art;  and  as  Raphael  painted  Madonnas,  and  Angelico 
angels,  so  many  industrious  artists  have  devoted  their 
skill  to  the  illustration  of  this  sacred  little  quadruped.  I 
cannot,  however,  add  that  this  religion  has  been  very 
favourable  to  the  higher  interests  of  art.  In  the  first 
place,  the  beast  himself  is  so  small  in  physical  dimensions, 
notwithstanding  his  enormous  moral  influence,  that  he 


OTHER  4N1MALS.  193 

occupies  no  space  on  the  canvas,  whilst  the  scenery  in 
which  he  is  hunted  is  from  the  artistic  point  of  view  as 
uninteresting  as  scenery  well  can  be.  The  vestments  of 
his  high-priests  are  dreadful  things  to  paint,  and  are  the 
despair  of  genuine  artists  ;  not  like  the  beautiful  things 
of  nature  for  any  inimitable  loveliness,  but  because  they 
are  so  glaringly  obtrusive  and  so  difficult  to  unite  har- 
moniously with  anything  else  in  creation,  except  flamin- 
goes and  boiled  lobsters,  which  the  most  ingenious 
artistic  composer  can  scarcely  find  a  pretext  for  intro- 
ducing. Seriously,  all  pictures  and  coloured  prints  of 
fox-hunting,  however  much  talent  and  skill  may  be 
lavished  upon  them,  are  excluded  from  the  category  of 
fine  art  by  the  very  nature  of  the  subject,  and  it  is  a  pity 
that  the  ability  which  is  often  lavished  upon  them  should 
be  so  wasted.  They  may,  of  course,  be  very  clever  in 
their  way  ;  they  often  are  so ;  but  it  is  simply  impossible 
to  make  them  harmonies  of  composed  colour.  And  even 
the  engravings  from  them  cannot  be  truly  artistic,  for 
the  costume  has  a  sort  of  neatness,  which,  though 
charming  on  a  tailor's  pattern-card,  and  quite  in  harmony 
with  the  generally  tidy  look  of  our  civilisation  in  saddlery 
and  harness,  in  carriage-building,  boat- building,  and  the 
rest,  is  neither  picturesque  like  romantic  costume  nor 
pure  like  the  nudities  or  draperies  of  the  Greeks.  A 
well-dressed  gentleman  in  top-boots  going  neatly  over 
a  stiff  fence  on  a  very  well-bred  horse,  is  a  pretty 
example  of  the  results  of  discipline,  but  does  not  afford 
material  for  a  picture.  In  fact,  it  is  a  sort  of  material 

z 


I94  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 

to  be  best  dealt  with  by  some  kindly  and  intelligent 
car-icaturist  like  John  Leech,  whose  hunting-scenes  have 
much  more  truth  and  life  than  the  pictures  of  more 
ambitious  artists,  whilst  they  are  artistic  exactly  to  the 
degree  which  the  subject  naturally  calls  for. 

By  far  the  most  picturesque  hunting  which  is  to  be 
seen  in  England  is  otter-hunting.  It  always  leads  you 
along  the  banks  of  some  stream  which  is  sure  to  be  rich 
in  itself,  and  which  gains  much  by  the  presence  of 
animated  and  interested  people,  who  forget  to  be  stiff 
and  shy  in  their  eagerness  about  the  hunt,  and  whose 
costume  harmonises  agreeably  with  the  greys  and  browns 
of  nature.  If,  however,  there  is  one  thing  more  to  my 
taste  than  following  an  otter  when  he  is  hunted,  it  is 
to  get  a  quiet  look  at  him  when  his  mind  is  perfectly 
at  ease.  There  are  otters  in  the  stream  behind  my 
house,  but  no  regular  otter-hounds  in  the  neighbour- 
hood ;  nor  should  I  regret  the  absence  of  them,  were  it 
not  that  otters  are  so  destructive  of  fish,  killing  not  for 
hunger  merely,  but  for  sport.  I  had  an  opportunity  not 
long  since  of  watching  an  otter  under  rather  peculiar 
circumstances,  as  to  effect.  It  was  late  evening,  and  I 
was  walking  with  my  dog  near  the  river-side,  on  its 
eastern  bank,  the  dog  being  nearer  the  water  than  I  was. 
There  still  remained  a  glow  in  the  west,  but  all  the 
landscape  was  in  the  obscurity  of  advanced  twilight,  so 
that  it  was  very  difficult  to  distinguish  anything.  Suddenly, 
my  dog  began  to  bark  in  an  extraordinary  manner,  as 
if  some  wild  animal  were  before  him,  and  on  prostrating 


OTHER  ANIMALS.  195 

myself  so  as  to  get  the  river  bank  against  the  light  re- 
flection from  the  western  sky,  I  at  once  beheld  a  very 
fine  otter  in  perfect  black  silhouette  against  the  still  bril- 
liant water.  He  hesitated  a  few  seconds,  then  dashed 
into  the  stream  and  escaped.  This  is  just  the  way  I  like 
to  pursue  wild  animals — to  watch  them  quietly  in  their 
own  haunts,  not  to  slaughter  or  wound  them.  When 
sportsmen  lose  their  tempers  because  some  poor  quad- 
ruped has  had  speed  and  cleverness  enough  to  save 
itself  I  am  always  secretly  delighted,  but  of  course 
dare  not  say  so  openly,  for  sportsmen  are  so  blood- 
thirsty that  they  might  become  dangerous  if  too  rashly 
contradicted. 

Many  years  ago  there  was  a  tame  otter  in  my  neigh- 
bourhood, which  showed  great  attachment  for  its  human 
friends,  and  had  a  playful  disposition.  It  would  come 
when  called,  like  a  dog,  and  behaved  in  every  respect 
like  a  trustworthy  household  pet.  This  otter  behaved 
perfectly  in  the  dining-room,  and  ate  of  everything  except 
cooked  fish.  It  is  curious  that  in  this  instance  the  here- 
ditary taste  did  not  show  itself  in  the  refusal  of  strange 
kinds  of  food,  but  in  a  connoisseur's  fastidiousness  about 
the  one  aliment  on  which  the  creature's  ancestors  had 
fed.  It  refused  all  fish  that  was  not  both  raw  and  per- 
fectly fresh.  The  only  other  hereditary  peculiarity  worth 
mentioning  was  the  necessity  for  frequently  plunging  its 
head  and  fore-limbs  in  water,  and  to  satisfy  this  need  a 
bucket  was  regularly  provided.  Curiously  enough,  when 
taken  to  the  river-side,  this  otter  did  not  willingly  swim, 


196  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 

but  if  left  to  itself  would  merely  use  the  river-brink  as  its 
bucket.  This  is  the  more  strange  when  we  consider  that 
the  structure  of  the  otter  is  so  admirably  adapted  for 
swimming,  since  all  his  feet  are  webbed,  and  he  can  propel 
himself  in  water  with  great  rapidity. 


IQ7 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

BIRDS. 

I  BELIEVE  that  every  human  being,  however  situated 
in  the  world  of  reality,  however  little  given  to  flights  of 
imagination,  has  at  one  time  or  other  dreamed  that  he 
was  endowed  with  wings,  and  skimming  with  prodigious 
rapidity  at  a  safe  elevation  above  the  irregular  surfaces 
of  the  globe.  I  feel  quite  assured  beforehand,  that  every 
reader  of  these  chapters,  even  if  he  happens  to  live  at  an 
immense  distance  from  the  writer  of  them,  or  a  century 
after  the  said  writer  shall  be  dead  and  buried,  will  be 
more  or  less  in  the  habit  of  flying  in  his  dreams. 

I  have  directly  asked  not  a  few  grave  gentlemen  and 
ladies  whether  they  flew  in  this  manner,  and  they  have 
invariably  answered  that  they  did.  Sometimes  we  fly  to 
escape  some  terrible  danger ;  enemies  crowd  round  us, 
and  just  when  they  become  most  menacing  we  suddenly 
remember  that  nature  has  provided  us  with  the  means 
of  safety :  we  give  a  stroke  or  two  with  our  mighty 
pinions,  and  swiftly  raise  ourselves  beyond  the  reach  of 
our  tormentors.  At  other  times  we  are  flying  on  a  great 


198  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIM4LS. 

journey :  cities,  fields,  forests,  pass  under  us,  and  then 
the  green  land  comes  to  an  end,  and  the  blue  ocean  rolls 
below,  sprinkled  with  white-sailed  ships.  It  may  be 
observed,  that  when  any  one  dreams  that  he  is  flying, 
that  accomplishment  is  always  a  personal  accomplish- 
ment of  his  own,  giving  him  a  remarkable  superiority 
over  others.  If  he  is  in  love,  he  holds  out  a  hand  to  the 
beloved  one  and  says,  '  Let  us  fly  away  together  ! '  but 
he  never  imagines  that  common  humanity  can  do  any- 
thing but  walk  slowly  about  upon  the  earth  and  gaze  at 
him  wonderingly  with  upturned  faces. 

These  vain  and  idle  dreams  are  a  reflection  of  man's 
ancient  envy  and  baffled  aspiration.  Men  have  always 
wished  that  they  could  fly,  and  have  always  felt  a  little 
hurt  by  the  superiority  of  so  many  inferior  creatures  in 
the  matter  of  locomotion.  For  nobody  affects  to  deny 
that  of  all  the  varieties  of  locomotion  flying  is  quite 
incomparably  the  most  perfect.  It  is  by  far  the  swiftest, 
to  begin  with  ;  though,  since  men  use  express  trains, 
birds  are  not  so  superior  as  they  used  to  be  in  the  matter 
of  simple  rapidity.  The  one  splendid  superiority  of  flying 
is,  that  from  any  one  point  of  the  earth's  surface  to  any 
other  point  the  road  is  straight  as  a  ray  of  light  and  per- 
fect as  polished  ice,  that  it  never  needs  repair,  that  it 
invades  no  one's  property,  and  has  to  pay  no  rents  nor 
compensations.  The  great  'highway  of  nations/  the  ocean 
of  salt  water,  has  some  of  these  advantages  also,  but  in  a 
degree  how  imerior !  The  ship  meets  a  sand-bank  and  is 
arrested,  the  waves  break  over  her  and  she  becomes  a 


BIRDS.  199 


wreck.  The  bird  meets  a  mountain  and  rises  over  it,  nor 
can  any  barrier  of  rock  or  fortification  arrest  her.  Think 
of  the  difference  between  a  ship  sailing  to  India  round  by 
the  Cape  of  Good  Hope,  or  even,  if  you  will,  by  the  costly 
new  canal  at  Suez,  and  a  bird  flying  to  India  over  land 
and  sea  !  Yes,  the  great  ocean  of  water,  glorious  as  it  is, 
may  not  be  compared  with  the  still  vaster  ocean  of  the 
air,  the  shoreless  ocean,  so  thin  and  clear,  that  submerges 
all  the  hills  and  valleys  of  the  world,  and  in  which  not 
even  the  loftiest  Alp  was  ever  islanded  !  We  are  grovel- 
ling at  the  bottom  of  it,  like  starfish  in  the  mud  of  the 
Atlantic  ;  but  the  birds  are  its  swift  fishes,  having  wings 
for  fins,  and  they  alone  have  the  freedom  of  the  blue  that 
is  above  us ! 

We  may  well  dream  about  that  marvellous  faculty  of 
flight ;  poets  may  well  imagine  that  if  they  knew  its  secrets 
and  had  experienced  its  unimaginable  sensations,  they 
would  write  more  glorious  verse.  Did  you  ever,  reader, 
fairly  and  seriously  set  yourself  to  realise  what  flying 
would  be  like,  supposing  of  course  (as  we  always  do  sup- 
pose) that  you  retained  your  human  feelings,  your  human 
capacity  for  intellectual  enjoyment  of  the  scenes  that 
passed  before  you  ?  I  have  sometimes  so  fixed  my 
thoughts  upon  these  imaginations,  that  at  last,  by  a  reac- 
rion  of  the  wearied  fancy,  I  landed  in  a  strange  scepticism 
about  all  flying.  Could  it  be  possible  that  any  creatures 
sustained  themselves  in  the  air,  and  propelled  themselves 
with  the  rapidity  of  an  express  train,  by  means  of  feathers 
fastened  to  skin  and  agitated  by  muscles?  There  are  times 


CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 


in  the  depth  of  the  night  when  these  doubts  will  visit  the 
sleepless  pillow,  just  as  we  doubt  sometimes  whether 
there  can  be  such  realities  as  the  battle  of  Sadowa  or  the 
siege  of  Paris ;  but  the  morning  comes  and  we  resume 
our  dull  acquiescence  in  the  facts,  neither  doubting  them 
nor  realising  them.  The  swallows  fly  about  the  house ; 
have  not  swallows  flown  about  it  ever  since  we  were 
born,  in  these  months  of  May  and  June  ?  Is  not  flying 
common  enough,  and  what  sensible  person  would  trouble 
his  mind  about  what  can  be  seen  every  day  and  every 
where  ? 

To  realise  what  flying  is,  we  need  to  deliver  ourselves 
from  the  effects  of  this  familiarity  and  to  recover  the 
faculty  of  wonder.  For  however  common  and  familiar 
flying  may  be,  it  is  of  all  the  Divine  inventions  one  of  the 
most  marvellous.  The  extreme  marvellousness  of  it  is 
sufficiently  proved  by  the  fact  that  all  our  men  of  science 
cannot  imitate  it,  though  the  models  exist  in  the  greatest 
variety  and  abundance,  and  they  have  nothing  to  do  but 
copy.  No  human  being  really  proposes  to  himself  to 
invent  a  flying-machine  :  the  machine  is  already  invented 
and  in  the  fullest  perfection :  all  that  men  have  to  do  is 
to  copy  it,  and  this  they  cannot  achieve  for  want  of  a 
material  having  the  strength  of  bird-muscle,  in  combina- 
tion with  its  lightness  and  power  of  contraction.  When 
you  carve  a  grouse  or  a  woodcock,  or  any  wild  bird  that 
flies,  you  sever  in  the  flesh  of  the  breast  a  marvel  which 
belongs  as  yet  exclusively  to  nature.  Men  can  make 
steam-engines  and  watches,  but  they  cannot  make  light 


BIRDS. 


muscle,  with  its  tremendous  power  of  contraction ;  and 
they  cannot  make  anything  combining  its  lightness  with 
its  active  strength.  It  is  this  combination  of  lightness  with 
strength  and  resistance  to  wear  and  tear,  which  always 
marks  the  superiority  of  mechanical  artificers.  A  cart 
built  in  a  village  may  be  as  strong  as  a  carriage  from 
Long  Acre ;  but  then,  how  heavy  it  is  !  The  clumsiest 
boat-builder  can  make  a  boat,  but  not  a  light  one  like 
Clasper  or  Searle.  And  when  the  object  of  Nature  is  to 
produce  a  creature  uniting  lightness  and  strength,  she 
goes  so  much  beyond  all  human  artificers  in  this  difficult 
combination  that  they  cannot  follow  her,  even  at  a  dis- 
tance. A  balloon  floats  in  the  air.  Nature  alone  makes 
things  that  will  swim  in  the  air.  Now  the  difference  in 
marvellousness  between  aquatic  and  aerial  swimming  may 
be  estimated  with  perfect  exactness,  since  it  depends 
upon  the  difference  of  gravity  in  the  two  fluids.  The 
weight  of  air  displaced  by  even  a  large  bird  is  so  minute, 
that  we  may  practically  consider  him  as  a  creature  sus- 
tained in  the  air  entirely  by  his  own  exertions.  M.  Miche- 
let,  in  one  of  those  amazingly  unscientific  passages  which 
often  stagger  us  in  the  midst  of  his  prose-poetry,  said 
that  birds  floated,  and  could  make  themselves  lighter 
than  air  by  swelling  themselves  at  will.*  It  is  useless  to 
waste  space  in  demonstrating  the  absurdity  of  this,  for  the 
reader  who  does  not  see  it  on  the  instant  would  be  unable 


*  '  II  enfle  son  volume,  done  diminue  sa  pesantenr  relative ;  dfis  lors  11 
monte  de  luI-mGme  dans  t*n  milieu  plus  lourd  que  lui. — L'Otseau,  6th 
edition,  p.  23. 

AA 


CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 


to  follow  the  demonstration.  The  truth  is,  that  under 
all  circumstances,  and  whether  puffed  up  or  not,  every 
bird  that  flies  is  so  much  heavier  than  air,  that  he  is  never 
aided  by  any  floating  power,  or  buoyancy,  whatever.  He 
maintains  himself  solely  by  the  effort  of  his  wings,  and 
how  prodigious  that  effort  must  be,  relatively  to  the  crea- 
ture's weight,  every  swimmer  knows.  Men  swim  in  a 
medium  so  dense  that  many  human  bodies  can  float  in  it 
without  an  effort,  and  yet  the  little  labour  that  is  needed 
to  keep  the  head  above  the  surface  and  ensure  a  slow 
advance  is  enough  to  produce  rapid  exhaustion,  even  in 
the  most  robust.  If  we  think  of  flight  as  a  kind  of  swiming 
which  it  is,  the  marvel  of  it  will  be  much  more  plain  to 
us.  Think  how  long  these  swimmers  of  the  air-ocean  can 
continue  without  rest !  It  is  not  so  much  their  prodigious 
speed  which  surprises,  for  in  a  medium  offering  so  little 
resistance  as  the  air  it  is  natural  that  creatures  should 
travel  swiftly,  if  they  can  travel  at  all ;  that  which  is  really 
astonishing  is  their  sustained  energy,  a  superiority  to 
fatigue  resembling  rather  the  divine  force  of  gods  and 
angels  than  the  efforts  of  mortal  weariness.  To  live  on 
the  wing  like  the  swallow,  to  traverse  oceans  like  the 
albatross,  a  creature  must  have  wells  of  inward  energy 
Tike  those  .deep  mysterious  iountains  which  have  never 
been  known  to  fail. 

What  the  bird  thinks  and  feels,  what  flying  is  to  him, 
we  know  not.  Some  people  will  tell  us  that  the  gladness 
which  poets  have  attributed  to  him  is  imaginary,  and 
that  in  reality  the  sublime  flights  the  poet  sings  of  are  to 


BIRDS.  203 


the  bird  himself  no  more  than  a  perfectly  prosaic  way  of 
getting  his  living  and  making  unavoidable  ;ourneys.  But 
is  there  not  reason  to  believe,  even  in  an  inquiry  so 
difficult  as  this,  that  we  may  obtain  a  little  light  from  our 
human  experience  ?  Do  we  not  invariably  rejoice  in  the 
possession  of  our  own  physical  faculties,  when  they  are 
perfect  enough  to  be  capable  of  sustained  activity,  with- 
out any  unpleasant  reaction  afterwards  ?  It  is  needless  to 
put  such  a  question  as  this  to  the  active  English  race. 
We  delight  in  all  the  varieties  of  motion  that  are  possible 
for  us — in  riding,  rowing,  swimming,  skating,  even  in  the 
prosaic  exercise  of  pedestrianism.  And  this  delight  is 
certainly  not  the  result  of  reason  in  our  race,  or  of  reaction 
from  intellectual  labour,  for  it  is  strongest  in  the  young 
who  never  reason  about  anything,  and  in  adults  belong- 
ing to  the  classes  which  do  hardly  any  intellectual  work. 
It  is  a  purely  physical  pleasure,  combining  the  sense  of 
relief  from  the  uneasiness  of  inaction  with  the  enjoyment 
of  an  agreeable  stimulus.  Now  the  more  finely-organised 
of  the  lower  animals  are  just  as  capable  of  enjoying 
physical  pleasures  as  we  are.  When  your  dog  goes  out 
with  you  he  does  twenty  miles  to  your  five,  yet  you  do 
not  order  him  to  run  the  superfluous  fifteen  :  he  runs 
them  because  he  rejoices  in  the  exercise.  A  horse  that 
seems  exhausted  when  just  taken  out  of  harness  will 
gallop  wildly  round  the  pasture  with  his  comrades.  Who 
forces  him  to  gallop  ?  He  is  not  spurred  by  spiked  balls, 
like  the  maddened  racers  in  the  Roman  corso.  If  quad- 
rupeds delight  in  the  free  use  of  their  terrestrial  swiftness, 


204  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 

so  may  the  birds  fly  gladly  in  their  play-heaven  of 
infinite  air.  And  I  have  no  doubt  that  every  healthy 
bird  flies  quite  as  much  because  he  likes  it,  as  with  any 
definite  purpose  of  providing  for  his  family.  In  the  life 
of  all  wild  creatures  there  is  no  rigid  demarcation  between 
duty  and  amusement :  they  do  not  divide  action  under 
separate  moral  heads;  they  fulfil  what  we  call  duties 
(such  as  building  habitations  and  providing  for  their 
families),  but  always  pleasurably,  as  a  grouse-shooter  or 
salmon-fisher  increases  the  supplies  of  his  larder. 

If  the  reader  never  studied  birds  on  the  wing  he  may 
be  glad  to  know  how  it  can  be  conveniently  done.  With 
a  rather  powerful  telescope,  so  fixed  on  a  tripod  as  to  be 
rapidly  movable  in  every  direction,  you  may  follow  the 
flight  of  many  kinds  of  birds  without  losing  sight  of  them 
for  an  instant,  and  observe  at  the  same  time  many  refine- 
ments of  motion  which  at  that  distance  would  escape  the 
naked  eye.  Flying  is  as  delicate  an  art  as  the  most 
perfect  skating  or  rowing,  and  many  a  wild  bird  is  an 
artist  in  his  way,  delighting  in  the  exercise  of  his  skill. 
To  every  one  who  takes  pleasure  in  seeing  perfectly 
accomplished  action,  such  as  perfect  rowing,  or  dancing, 
or  horsemanship,  let  me  recommend  the  study  of  a  kestrel 
with  a  telescope  as  he  slowly  circles  with  motionless 
wings,  or  hangs  exactly  in  the  same  place,  though  the 
wind  may  be  rushing  past  him  at  the  rate  of  twenty  miles 
an  hour.  At  times  he  alters  slightly  the  angle  of  his 
wings,  and  now  and  then  they  quiver,  but  the  precise 
sufficiency  of  the  change  to  answer  the  alterations  of  the 


BIRDS.  205 


aerial  currents  is  proved  by  the  fixity  of  the  bird.  Of  all 
the  varieties  of  flight  to  be  easily  observed  in  England 
that  of  the  kestrel  is  the  most  beautiful ;  and  if  the  bird's 
art,  in  its  origin  divine  and  improved  by  the  practice  of 
unnumbered  generations,  were  not  far  above  the  gropings 
of  human  science,  it  might  be  added  that  it  is  the  most 
scientific.  The  kestrel  wastes  no  effort,  he  sets  his  wings 
as  if  he  had  studied  the  decomposition  of  forces,  and  the 
powers  of  the  air  support  him.  The  eagle  has  the  same 
science,  but  of  him  I  say  little,  having  rarely  seen  him 
wild.  Macgillivray  tells  us  that  most  eagles  and  hawks 
have  the  habit  of  sailing  or  floating  in  circles,  '  as  if  for 
amusement' 

It  may  be  observed  that  the  importance  of  birds  in 
pictorial  art  and  in  sculpture  bears  a  very  irregular  rela- 
tion to  their  importance  in  natural  history,  and  even  in 
poetry.  Several  birds  are  eagerly  sought  by  naturalists 
which  the  artist  seldom  concerns  himself  about,  either  on 
account  of  their  extreme  rarity  and  the  consequent  in- 
convenience of  study,  or  else  because  they  are  too  insig- 
nificant in  appearance.  Poets  never  weary  of  the  night- 
ingale, but  painters  wisely  avoid  the  inimitable  songstress. 
If  some  artist  attempted  to  illustrate  the  exquisite 
opening  of  Parisina  : — 

'  It  is  the  hour  when  from  the  boughs 
The  nightingale's  high  voice  is  heard,' 

we  know  the  sort  of  illustration  that  might  be  expected. 
He  would  give  us  an  evening  landscape,  with  foliage 


206  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS, 

against  the  clearness  of  the  sky,  and  then,  somewhere  on 
the  extremity  of  a  twig,  a  dickeybird  of  some  kind,  sup- 
posed to  be  a  nightingale  but  much  exaggerated  in  size, 
would  reward  the  investigations  of  the  persevering  student. 
The  nightingale,  reversing  the  great  lesson  of  our  infancy, 
is  heard  and  not  seen  ;  poets  may  praise  his  singing,  and 
violinists  may  imitate  it  if  they  can,  but  painters  have 
nothing  to  do  with  him.  How  he  fills  the  woods  at  mid- 
night !  Invisible,  hidden  for  the  greater  majesty  of  the 
effect,  he,  no  larger  than  one  of  the  hundred  million  leaves, 
makes  them  all  vibrate  to  his  melody.  He,  and  the 
skylark,  are  the  beloved  birds  of  poets  ;  but  painters  like 
the  eagle,  the  swan,  the  splendid  peacock,  the  ashy  heron, 
the  scarlet  ibis.  In  sculpture,  the  material  goes  far  to 
settle  the  preference ;  the  workers  in  marble  may  give  us 
severe  abstracts  of  the  terrible  bird  of  Jove,  but  they  wisely 
avoid  all  slender  stilts  and  bills.  On  the  other  hand,  our 
clever  modern  wood-carvers,  who  study  nature  like 
painters,  take  a  pride  in  proving  the  adaptability  of  their 
material,  and  carve  dead  snipes  and  woodcocks,  or  slender 
fishers  and  waders.  Precious  indeed  to  the  carver  ara 
the  beautiful  forms  of  birds  !  Nothing  in  all  the  realm  of 
nature  has  curves  of  that  particular  kind  of  loveliness, — 
curves  so  bold  and  pure,  yet  restrained  by  such  perfect 
temperance.  Who  can  tell  what  Christian  art  may  have 
gained  from  one  bird  emblem,  what  recondite  lessons  of 
beauty  were  taught  by  the  mystic  dove  ?  Age  after  age 
the  carvers  and  painters  studied  him,  and  learned  of  him 
more  and  more. 


207 


CHAPTER    XIV. 
BIRDS  (continued). 

ONLY  the  tame  birds  favour  us  with  the  quiet  enjoy- 
ment of  their  beauty,  for  though  a  quick  observer  may 
catch  glimpses  of  the  wild  ones,  and  see  enough  for  the 
purposes  of  the  naturalist,  he  can  seldom  study  them  as 
artists  like  to  study.  For  this  reason  I  say  less  of  birds 
in  these  chapters  than  the  interest  of  the  subject  deserves, 
not  being  willing  to  speak  of  what  I  have  not  seen  in 
nature.  There  exist,  it  is  true,  many  poor  prisoners  in 
public  gardens  and  private  cages,  and  great  quantities  of 
stuffed  skins  in  the  glass  cases  of  museums  ;  but  in  refer- 
ence to  this  material  I  ask  myself  what  relation  all  this 
bird-beauty  bears  to  the  beauty  of  the  world  as  man 
sees  it ;  and  the  answer  is,  that  for  man  the  world  is  but 
little  adorned  by  the  beauty  of  any  birds  that  he  has  not 
domesticated.  Writing  then  simply  from  the  human  point 
of  view,  I  find  the  vast  materials  of  science  for  the  most 
part  unavailable.  What  do  we  really  see  of  birds  in  na- 
ture ?  Usually  either  specks  in  the  distance  or  a  confusion 
of  rapid  movement  nearer  hand,  the  form  in  both  cases 


208  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 

eluding  us.  Many  of  us  have  seen  wild  eagles,  that  is,  a 
pair  of  dots  near  the  brow  of  some  Highland  mountain, 
which  when  most  visible  we  should  have  taken  for  hawks 
without  the  assurance  of  our  guide  or  gamekeeper.  And 
even  much  commoner  birds  than  these  perpetually  elude 
our  sight  by  the  mere  rapidity  of  their  motion.  Take, 
for  instance,  the  king- fisher.  You  are  idling  by  the  river- 
side in  summer,  and  between  brown  water  and  green 
boughs  goes  a  sudden  cerulean  flash  !  A  zigzag  lightning 
of  flaming  azure  remains  for  an  instant  upon  the  retina, 
and  you  know  that  a  king- fisher  has  passed.  But,  pray, 
^'hat  have  you  perceived  of  his  form  ?  What  a  difference 
between  birds  and  flowers  !  how  easy  it  is  to  see  the 
flowers,  that  final  decoration  of  the  earth;  how  difficult 
to  watch  the  birds  !  Sometimes,  when  flowers  were  de- 
stroyed in  heedlessness,  I  have  wished  that  they  had  wings 
and  could  escape,  but  oftener  I  have  desired  some  magic 
spell  that  might  fix  the  bird  upon  the  bough,  just  till  he 
could  be  painted !  We  all  know  the  Sultana  of  the 
Nightingale — 

'  The  maid  for  whom  his  melody 
His  thousand  songs  are  heard  on  high 

*  *  •  • 

His  queen,  the  garden  queen,  his  Rose.' 

but  how  few  of  us  know  her  lover !  And  even  if  birds 
would  let  themselves  be  better  seen,  it  is  not  in  our 
.northern  climate  that  we  can  estimate  their  value  as  a 
part  of  the  splendour  of  the  world.  In  the  forests  01  the 


BIRDS.  209 


tropics  they  are  great  and  gorgeous,  clothed  with  scarlet 
and  green,  and  the  most  dazzling  orange,  and  azure  as 
from  heaven,  and  purple  of  the  sea,  and  crimson  of 
tropical  sunsets.  In  those  lands  the  birds  carry  the  most 
intense  colour  everywhere,  and  must  perforce  be  seen, 
like  a  D.C.L.  in  his  academical  robes,  or  young  Oliver 
Goldsmith  in  his  scarlet  breeches.  But  of  our  northern 
birds,  though  many  of  them  have  pretty  and  rather 
bright  colours,  when  you  examine  them,  the  prevailing 
impression  is  conveyed  by  the  adjective  so  frequently 
used  by  Mr.  Morris  in  his  poetry,  when  he  talks  simply 
of  'the  brown  bird.'  They  delight  the  ear  rather  than  the 
eye,  and  as  a  visible  part  of  our  northern  nature  their 
position  is  modest  in  the  extreme.  The  sea-birds  show 
best  of  all,  flashing  white  on  green  wave  and  azure  sky, 
and  so  repeating  the  brilliant  accents  of  the  foam- flake 
and  the  cloud.  The  common  sea-gull,  though  he  boasts 
no  charm  of  voice,  holds  a  far  more  important  rank  in 
pictorial  nature  than  the  nightingale  or  the  lark.  And 
there  are  places  on  the  wild  coasts  where  the  sea-fowl  can 
no  more  be  omitted  by  the  painter  than  mankind  in  the 
streets  of  cities.  Their  cities  are  the  inaccessible  clifis 
whose  grandeur  gains  enormously  by  their  tumultuous 
clouds  of  wings.  No  mist- wreath  on  alpine  precipice  has 
the  majesty  of  those  unnumbered  multitudes;  no  song  in 
southern  woodland  has  the  poetry  oi  their  discordant 
cries.  Behind  them  the  iron-bound  coast  where  their 
nests  are  made ;  below  them — a  thousand  feet  below 
them — the  restless,  pitiless  breakers  that  cast  the  wreck 

EB 


CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 


against  the  rock ;  in  front  of  them  the  unquiet  plain  of 
waters,  storm-swept,  inhospitable,  without  one  friendly 
bough,  cr  any  sheltering  eaves  !  Truly  these  creatures 
have  a  stern  and  drear  existence,  and  there  is  a  watchful 
gravity  in  their  aspect  altogether  different  from  the  light- 
headedness  of  the  sylvan  songsters.  They  are  not  happy 
as  chirping  sparrows  are  happy,  but  have  something  of 
the  ocean's  melancholy,  and  the  grave  bearing  of  hard- 
living  fishermen,  the  toilers  of  the  sea. 

Sea-gulls  are  beautiful  when  the  sky  is  clear  and  blue, 
and  the  bright  sunshine  brings  out  the  purity  of  their 
forms,  yet  I  like  them  better  against  darkly-lowering 
clouds,  and  best  of  all  when  the  black  tempest  is  brewing, 
and  they  have  their  part  in  the  increasing  anxiety  and 
agitation  of  nature.  At  such  a  time  as  that,  when  the 
watchful  mariner  reefs  his  sails,  and  looks  to  every  rope 
and  spar  with  redoubled  caution,  the  gulls  are  blown 
across  the  darkening  heaven,  and  the  floating  divers  are 
tossed  on  the  rising  waves.  Then  the  little  petrel  runs 
down  the  trough  of  the  sea,  and  the  sailor  inwardly 
prayeth.  These  wild  birds  are  safer  than  he  is ;  they 
can  rest  on  their  wings  like  a  balloon  in  the  tranquil 
heart  of  the  hurricane.  Only  when  they  touch  the  water 
need  they  know  that  a  storm  is  raging. 

I  think,  of  all  the  travelling  that  is  done  upon  the 
planet,  the  travelling  of  some  great  sea-bird,  such  as  the 
albatross  for  instance,  is  the  most  sublime.  Think  of  him 
leaving  some  barren  rock  in  the  Austral  Ocean,  and 
without  further  preparation  than  the  unfolding  of  his 


BIRDS.  211 


mighty  wings,  setting  forth  on  a  voyage  of  two  or  three 
hundred  leagues  !  The  qualities  of  self-reliance  and  self- 
help,  which  we  are  told  that  we  ought  to  acquire,  belong 
much  more  decidedly  to  the  albatross  than  to  any  human 
being  who  ever  existed.  The  truth  is,  that  not  '  self- 
help/  but  '  mutual  help'  must  be  the  motto  of  humanity, 
and  it  is  only  by  association  that  we  travel.  Even  our 
brave  Livingstone,  one  of  the  most  self-reliant  travellers 
ever  known,  needs  the  help  of  many  negroes  for  the 
accomplishment  of  his  designs  ;  and  we  know  with  what 
an  imposing  force  the  great  Pasha,  Sir  Samuel  Baker,  has 
lately  gone  southwards  from  the  land  of  Egypt  to  the 
sources  of  the  Nile.  Merely  to  be  in  a  modern  steamship 
is  in  fact  to  accept  the  services  of  a  thousand  laborious 
human  helpers,  but  when  the  albatross  sails  forth  alone 
nothing  but  the  natural  forces  aid  him  ;  he  propels  himself 
by  his  own  unwearied  pinions,  and  seeks  his  food  in  the 
waves  below.  Self-reliance  of  that  genuine  kind  is  quite 
beyond  us,  our  human  self-reliance  being  simply  the 
confidence  in  our  power  of  getting  money,  on  which  we 
really  rely,  rnd  which  means  the  help  of  all  humanity. 
The  great  lonely  birds  are  self-reliant,  and  what  a  noble 
absence  of  fear  is  needed  for  the  daily  habit  of  their  lives  ! 
Man's  nervous  apprehension  of  possible  evil  would  hinder 
his  use  of  their  powers  if  he  possessed  them.  If  we  could 
fly  to  America  we  should  want  floating  dining-rooms 
under  us  for  refreshment,  and  hospitals  in  case  oi  sickness 
or  fatigue. 

It  seems  as  if  it  would  be  pleasanter  to  be  one  o^  the 


CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 


gregarious  birds  than  one  of  the  solitaries,  but  the  help 
we  most  value,  that  given  to  us  in  weakness  or  disease, 
is  denied  to  the  ailing  members  of  a  flock  of  birds,  who 
must  keep  the  regulated  pace.  In  this  respect  the  tame 
swan  is  more  fortunate  than  his  ancestors,  since  his  life, 
though  less  active,  is  more  tranquil  and  independent. 
The  difference  is  very  exactly  that  between  an  officer  en 
retraite,  and  the  soldier  under  the  flag.  The  discipline  of 
the  wild  gregarious  birds  is  very  regular  and  severe,  and 
they  are  all  the  stronger  and  more  active  for  this  disci- 
pline. Domestication  is  always,  in  a  certain  sense,  dete- 
rioration. Birds  may  grow  larger  in  the  domestic  state, 
they  may  weigh  more,  and  a  couple  of  them  may  make 
a  more  sufficient  dinner,  when  they  are  bred  specially  for 
the  table,  but  the  living  creature  is  not  what  he  was.  The 
true  degradation  of  the  bird  is  to  lose  the  power  of  flight. 
Our  tame  swans  are  very  beautiful ;  they  have  a  devel- 
oped luxurious  beauty  like  that  of  garden  flowers,  of 
enormous  lilies  and  roses,  but  can  they  fly  ?  Beautiful  as 
are  the  swans  upon  the  Thames,  admirably  as  they  adorn 
the  rich  reaches  of  a  landscape  which  without  them  would 
be  all  but  perfect,  and  with  them  is  the  ideal  realised, 
what,  after  all,  does  the  Londoner  know  of  swans  ?  He 
alone  who  has  heard  at  once  the  harmony  of  their  hun- 
dred wings,  and  seen  the  white  flock  come  to  earth  on  the 
borders  of  some  lonely  mere,  he  alone  knows  the  tribe  or 
nation  .of  the  swans  !  '  There  is  a  wild  harmony,'  says 
Charles  St.  John,  'in  their  bugle-cry  as  they  wheel  round 
and  round,  now  separating  into  small  companies  as  each 


BIRDS.  213 


family  of  five  or  six  seems  inclined  to  alight ;  and  now 
all  joining  again  in  along  undulating  line,  waiting  for  the 
word  of  command  of  some  old  leader  !'  You  may  see  this 
occasionally  in  the  remote  Highlands,  or  more  frequently 
you  may  hear  the  sounds  of  wings  far  above  you  in  the 
night — the  'gabble  raches'  or  'gabriel  ratchets'  of  popu- 
lar superstition,  the  passing  of  the  aerial  hunter  with  all 
his  nois*y  hounds  !. 

Still,  if  the  swan  that  is  commonly  known  to  us  has  not 
this  collective  grandeur,  he  has  even  superior  individual 
beauty.  The  wild  swan  is  not  so  beautiful,  nor  so  ma- 
jestic, as  the  living  ornament  of  our  own  familiar  Thames. 
No  painter  who  undertook  to  represent  a  royal  progress 
on  the  river  would  fail  to  give  us  the  noble  bird  close  to 
the  royal  barge.  His  white  breast  meets  the  wavelets, 
impelled  invisibly  by  rhythmic  impulses,  his  soft  wings 
catch  the  gentle  airs  of  summer,  whilst  high  on  the  grace- 
ful neck  dwells  the  living  head  that  governs  that  perfect 
motion  !  What  need  of  green  of  parrot,  or  scarlet  of 
flamingo,  or  insect  iridescence  ?  What  need  of  any 
colour  but  that  effulgent  whiteness,  that  golden  beak,  and 
that  one  touch  of  black  ? 

We  have  full  liberty  to  enjoy  the  beauty  of  these  glo- 
rious birds  without  any  prosaic  drawback  from  our  ideal. 
They  are  completely  and  harmoniously  majestic.  They 
are  full  of  courage,  they  are  devotedly  faithful  and  affec- 
tionate, and  they  live  a  hundred  years.  Yet,  since  the 
bird  who  could  match  the  eagle  in  courage  and  man 
himself  in  longevity,  and  with  whose  beauty  the  king  of 


2i4  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 

the  gods  did  not  disdain  to  clothe  himself,  had  never 
given  the  least  sign  of  any  musical  talent  or  accomplish- 
ment ;  the  fertile  human  imagination,  always  so  unwilling 
to  leave  any  hiatus  in  its  ideals,  invented  that  most  poet- 
ical fable  of  the  swan's  song  at  the  close  of  a  songless 
life ;  as  if  the  bird  which  had  never  been  musical  when 
most  happy,  became  so  in  the  dark  shadow  of  imminent 
dissolution.  Of  all  strange  old  beliefs,  I  think  thfs  is  one 
of  the  most  curiously  beautiful.  Our  forefathers  took  it 
quite  seriously,  and  went  and  listened  for  the  melody  of 
dying  swans,  as  the  Queen  of  Navarre  went  to  see  a 
young  lady  die,  that  she  might  catch  a  glimpse  of  the 
soul  as  it  passed  between  the  body  and  the  ceiling.  The 
same  Queen  of  Navarre  explained  the  swan's  song  by  the 
supposition  that  the  bird's  spirit,  leaving  the  body  through 
so  long  a  neck,  would  produce  musical  murmurs.  Miche- 
let  half  believes  that  the  swan  really  did  sing  in  Virgil's 
time,  but  that  since  then,  having  come  into  northern 
climes,  her  Muse,  which  was  of  the  south,  is  mute,  and 
the  bird  alone  survives. 

With  all  our  delight  in  art,  and  our  interest  in  natural 
history,  it  may  be  doubted  whether  we  care  for  bird- 
beauty  so  much  as  they  did  in  the  middle  ages.  We  are 
certainly  not  so  fond  of  having  peacocks  in  our  gardens 
as  our  ancestors  were,  and  their  greater  appreciation  of 
the  peacock  is  still  more  clearly  proved  by  their  custom 
of  serving  him  at  high  festivals  with  all  his  most  magni- 
ficent plumage.  They  wore,  too,  the  plumes  of  birds,  as 
the  most  perfect  top  or  finial  of  costume.  In  Japanese  art, 


BIRDS.  21 5 


which  up  to  the  present  date  corresponds  accurately  to 
our  art  of  the  Middle  Ages,  birds  have  an  important 
place  and  are  treated  with  remarkable  power  and  knowl- 
edge. The  truth  is,  that  to  admire  birds  quite  heartily 
and  sufficiently  it  appears  as  if  a  little  childishness  were 
necessary.  All  children  take  an  interest  in  birds,  as  all 
properly  constituted  women  do  in  flowers,  and  our  best 
impressions  of  birds  are,  I  believe,  not  really  recent,  but 
reminiscences  of  very  early  youth.  I  distinctly  remember 
that  a  lady  who  had  a  peacock  gave  me  one  of  its  most 
splendid  feathers,  at  a  time  when  neither  literature  nor 
art  could  have  taught  any  appreciation  of  beauty ;  but 
the  intensity  of  that  colour,  the  gleaming  splendour  of 
those  filaments  are  distinct  in  my  memory  yet.  The 
business-like  gravity  of  this  nineteenth  century  prevents 
all  serious  persons  of  the  male  sex  from  putting  feathers 
in  their  hats  (except  a  few  picturesque  Volunteers) ;  yet 
surely  there  is  something  excessive  in  our  disdain  of 
these,  the  most  perfect  of  all  ornaments,  which  the  dying 
birds  bequeath.  Nothing  in  nature  is  more  beautiful  than 
a  feather,  with  its  delicate  tapering  curves,  and  colour 
always  admirable  in  its  way,  whether  the  prevailing  note 
of  it  be  one  of  sobriety  or  of  splendour.  The  savage  who 
covers  his  whole  mantle  with  short  feathers  closely  ar- 
ranged as  on  a  dove's  breast,  proves  his  sensibility  to  a 
kind  of  natural  beauty  which  civilised  men  neglect.  Even 
our  English  birds  supply  a  very  complete  scale  of  colour, 
and  if  not  rich  in  the  brilliant  contrasts  of  the  tropics, 
they  are  often  admirable  for  those  delicate  gradations  and 


216  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 

quiet  harmonies  which  the  cultivated  eye  prefers.  The 
varieties  of  grey  and  brown  in  sea-fowl  and  mountain- 
game  correspond  to  the  rich  varieties  of  the  same  colour- 
motives  in  rainy  skies  and  autumnal  or  wintry  landscape, 
and  the  more  we  come  to  know  of  colour  the  more  alive 
we  are  to  these  less  obvious  beauties. 

Were  it  not  that  space  is  failing  me  I  should  like  to 
speak  at  length  about  the  birds  we  have  domesticated. 
Of  these  the  pigeons  are  the  most  beautiful,  and  the 
favourites  of  poets  and  painters.  They  look  their  best  in 
the  intense  sunshine  of  a  southern  summer,  wheeling 
round  some  mediaeval  dovecote  tower,  with  the  dark 
blue  sky  behind  them.  The  white  ones  are  my  favourites, 
on  account  of  their  dazzling  purity,  and  the  completeness 
with  which  their  whole  form  is  revealed,  as  if  it  were 
carved  in  marble ;  but  the  details  of  colouring  in  other 
varieties  are  often  very  interesting  when  you  see  them 
near  at  hand;  and  several  excellent  painters  (need  I 
name  John  Lewis  ?)  have  studied  their  wonderful  blues 
and  purples  with  the  care  and  diligence  which  they 
deserve.  Still  more  frequently  painted  are  our  familiar 
acquaintances  of  the  poultry-yard,  Chanticleer  the  splen- 
did and  the  proud,  with  all  his  humble  harem.  Painters 
find  in  them  a  mine  of  rich  warm  colour  and  plenty  of 
characteristic  attitude,  and  poultry  have  been  so  asso- 
ciated with  human  life  from  very  remote  antiquity,  that 
they  have  quite  an  important  place  in  literature.  Without 
wishing  to  detract  from  the  merits  of  any  other  artist,  I 
may  allude,  in  passing,  to  the  admirable  poultry  of 


;if      ' 


;'.;••;:; 


BIRDS.  217 


Charles  Jacque,  who,  so  far  as  my  knowledge  goes,  has 
drawn  them  better  than  anybody  else,  as  to  the  truth  and 
variety  of  attitude  and  expression.  He  has,  to  begin 
with,  the  gifts  of  the  born  animal-painter,  and  is  a  great 
poultry-fancier  also,  which  has  no  doubt  much  strength- 
ened his  habits  of  observation.  His  countryman,  M. 
Bracquemond,  is  especially  strong  in  water-fowl,  and  few 
subjects  of  a  familiar  kind  are  more  rewarding  to  an  artist 
of  real  ability.  There  is  a  great  deal  of  beautiful  colour 
about  ducks,  from  the  rich  soft  gold  of  the  fluffy  duck- 
lings, to  the  deep  iridescence  of  a  drake's  neck,  and  the 
strong  markings  on  his  wings,  besides  which  the  painter 
of  water-fowl  gets  the  ripples  and  reflections  of  the  liquid 
surface,  which  are  better  worth  painting  than  the  trodden 
straw  of  the  farm-yard. 

I  leave  the  hens  and  ducks  somewhat  hastily  and 
reluctantly,  in  order  to  have  space  for  a  few  words  about 
the  manner  in  which  birds  are  usually  treated.  Instead 
of  finding  a  tranquil  pleasure  in  watching  the  habits  of 
these  most  admirable  and  interesting  creatures,  the  aver- 
age European  thinks  only  about  shooting  them.  If  a  boy 
happens  to  discover  a  heron  by  the  side  of  some  quiet 
stream,  the  one  idea  that  instantly  takes  possession  of  his 
mind  is  the  regret  that  he  has  no  gun ;  and  if,  un- 
fortunately, the  weapon  happens  to  be  in  his  hands,  he 
kills  the  heron  (or  more  probably  wounds  him)  without  a 
moment's  doubt  or  hesitation.  When  the  boy  becomes 
a  man,  the  passion  for  killing  has  strengthened  into  a 
confirmed  habit,  made  inveterate  by  the  pride  of  skill. 

CC 


2i 8  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 

The  wild  bird  is  not  looked  upon  as  a  creature  to  be 
treated  with  more  hospitality  than  a  wolf;  everybody 
fires  at  him  as  at  some  noxious  vermin.  Even  the  scientific 
naturalist  adds  yearly  to  the  long  catalogue  of  destruc- 
tion, to  supply  his  dissecting-room  with  bodies  and  his 
glass  cases  with  stuffed  skins.  And  so  it  comes  to  pass  that 
the  wild  birds  of  civilised  countries  are  every  year  more 
rare,  and  we  are  all  as  ignorant  about  them  as  people 
must  be  who  have  nothing  but  books  of  science,  without 
that  personal  familiarity  which  alone  makes  knowledge 
alive.  The  late  Mr.  Waterton,  the  naturalist,  gave  a  fine 
example  in  his  gentle  hospitality.  Round  his  house  in 
Yorkshire  was  a  great  space  of  land,  with  wood  and 
water,  encircled  by  a  protecting  wall ;  within  that  space 
no  gun  was  ever  fired,  it  was  the  guarded  paradise  of  the 
birds.  In  their  assurance  of  perfect  peace  they  did  not 
shun  man's  friendly  observation.  Without  our  stupid 
destructiveness  there  might  be  many  such  bird-Edens  as 
that.  The  birds  do  not  avoid  us  naturally.  It  has  always 
been  roted  by  voyagers  that  in  lands  hitherto  uninhabit- 
ed and  unvisited  by  man  they  sat  quietly  within  gunshot, 
looking  at  their  strange  visitors  with  undismayed  curios- 
ity. If  men  had  treated  them  kindly  they  might  have 
been  our  friends.  Did  the  reader  ever  happen  to  meet 
with  the  well-known  birds'  friend  in  the  garden  of  the 
Tuileries, — an  old  man  whose  life  had  been  saddened  by 
the  loss  of  those  he  loved,  and  who  sought  consolation  in 
his  solitude,  and  found  it  in  the  friendship  of  little  birds  ? 
They  flew  about  his  head,  not  as  the  bird  in  Rubens's 


BIRDS.  219 


picture  of  his  sons,  which  is  held  by  a  piece  of  string,  but 
bound  by  no  thread  except  the  invisible  one  of  their  gra- 
titude, and  affection,  and  expectation.  Not  entirely 
disinterested  or  unselfish  in  their  love,  yet  was  it  full  of 
trust,  and  that  trust  quite  a  personal  and  peculiar  one, 
for  it  was  given  to  him  alone.  A  minute  before  he  came 
into  the  garden  they  were  wild  birds  still,  and  when  he 
had  gone  home  they  returned  to  their  lofty  trees ;  but 
whilst  he  walked  there  in  the  afternoon  they  went  and 
talked  with  him  as  if  he  had  been  their  father,  settling  on 
his  shoulders  and  his  arms,  and  picking  the  crumbs  close 
to  his  careful*  feet  They  must  have  wondered  at  his 
absence  when  he  died,  and  even  now,  though  things  are 
so  changed  since  then,  and  the  Palace  is  a  blackened  ruin, 
and  it  seems  as  if  centuries  had  passed.  I  believe  that 
those  little  sparrows  and  finches  still  remember  their  old 
friend,  and  would  make  a  fluttering  cloud  of  gladness 
about  his  head  if  he  could  come  from  the  cemetery  where 
he  sleeps  and  revisit  the  chestnut  shades. 

The  practice  of  keeping  these  sweet  singers  in  cages  is 
of  all  cruelties  the  most  pardonable,  for  it  proceeds  from 
love  alone,  and  yet  I  may  enter  here  a  not  intemperate 
protest.  The  truth  is,  that  of  caged  birds  and  their 
happiness  or  unhappiness  I  am  simply  and  absolutely 
ignorant,  never  having  permitted  that  kind  of  imprison- 
ment where  I  had  any  power  to  prevent  it  In  this 
matter  the  practice  of  Leonardo  da  Vinci  seems  the  best 
for  us  to  imitate;  for  though  he  did  indeed  purchase 
little  singing-birds  in  cages,  it  was  only  to  set  them  free. 


CHAPTERS  ON  4NIMALS. 


Ah  !  that  first  taste  of  recovered  liberty,  when  the  wings 
beat  no  longer  against  the  pitiless  wires  but  flew  in  the 
boundless  air  !  Had  they  known,  those  ransomed  wand- 
erers, that  their  liberator  had  bought  their  freedom, 
would  they  not  have  come  back  to  him  every  day  to  fill 
his  garden  with  their  songs,  and  tell  him  the  secret  of 
their  nests  in  the  depths  of  the  distant  woods  ? 

In  the  same  spirit  of  kindness  the  Norwegian  peasants 
put  a  sheaf  of  unthreshed  wheat  on  the  roof  of  the  hou^e 
at  Christmas.  Soon  the  news  of  this  rare  feast  spreads 
far  and  wide  amongst  the  half-starved  birds  in  the  forest, 
and  they  come  like  a  swarm  of  bees.  Is  not  that  better 
than  attracting  larks*  by  the  flashes  of  a  treacherous 
mirror,  and  shooting  them  from  an  ambush  ? 

•  I  wish  all  song-birds  were  rank  poison, — there  might  be  some  chance 
of  preserving  them  then.  What  right-minded  person  can  eat  larks  and 
thrushes  without  compunction  ?  One  of  the  most  odious  and  monstrous 
eights  to  be  met  with  in  Europe  is  a  fat  and  vulgar  French  bagman 
devouring  a  dish  of  sky-larks.  Look  at  him  as  he  e«  ts,  not  inaudibly, 
and  think  of  Shelley's  verse  !  Only  imagine  those  abominable  old  Romans 
who  swallowed  platefuls  of  nightingales'  tongues!  How  perlectly  bite 
was  their  notion  of  luxury  !  how  stupid  to  fancy  that  because  the  night- 
ingale sang  so  sweetly  her  tongue  must  be  particularly  succulent!  It 
would  be  as  reasonable  to  make  a  dish  of  old  fiddle-strings. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

ANIMALS    IN    ART. 

SOME  years  ago,  wandering  in  Picardy,  I  stayed  for  the 
night  at  a  certain  inn,  and  having  ordered  some  beef  for 
supper,  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  a  whole  ox  placed 
on  the  table  before  me.  The  a-arfon  of  the  establishment, 
who  was  also  the  cook,  gave  me  indeed  the  dish  my 
hunger  craved  for  after  a  walk  of  twenty  miles ;  but  by 
way  of  a  poetical  or  artistic  effect  (which  could  have 
occurred  to  nobody  but  a  Frenchman),  he  placed  at  the 
same  time  on  the  table  the  waxen  image  of  an  ox.  He 
set  this  beast,  which  was  exactly  the  size  of  those  oxen 
which  Gulliver  devoured  in  Lilliput,  on  the  white  table- 
cloth in  front  of  me,  stepped  back  to  look  at  him  as  an 
artist  looks  at  the  picture  on  his  easel,  then  snatched  him 
up  hastily,  and  gave  a  push  to  one  of  the  legs  and  a  twist 
to  the  tail,  replaced  him  on  the  table,  smiled  in  conscious 
triumph  and  exclaimed,  'There,  sir,  isn't  he  perfect?' 

He  had  made  this  masterpiece  whilst  engaged  in  the 
still  more  useful  and  admirable  art  of  cooking  the 
natural  beef.  There  was  no  denying  the  cleverness  of  the 


CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 


performance  ;  the  ox  was  full  of  life,  his  attitude  ex- 
pressed a  puzzled  bovine  apprehension  as  if  some  alarm- 
ing little  animal  were  teasing  him,  every  limb  was  ready 
for  action,  and  even  the  eye,  though  it  was  merely  a  hole 
bored  with  one  of  the  prongs  of  a  steel  fork,  seemed  to 
glare  with  fiery  excitement  in  the  dark  shadow  cast  by 
the  lamp.  My  solitary  meal  was  greatly  enlivened  by 
this  interesting  study,  but  the  artist  had  still  another 
surprise  in  reserve.  When  he  entered  with  the  dessert 
he  lifted  daintily  from  a  plate  of  petits  fours  a  most 
savage-looking  little  wax  dog,  which  being  placed  in 
front  of  the  excited  ox  began,  as  it  seemed,  to  bark  most 
furiously.  He  had  made  the  dog  whilst  looking  after 
those  other  dishes  whose  merits  had  just  been  very  grate- 
fully appreciated. 

It  is  needless  to  add  that  we  became  great  friends  at 
once,  and  that  I  spent  hours  with  him  in  the  kitchen 
watching  the  simultaneous  exercise  of  his  two  arts.  The 
cookery  was  never  neglected  ;  but  whenever  the  pans 
could  be  left  to  themselves  for  a  minute,  the  skilful 
fingers  took  up  the  shapeless  wax,  and  pushed  and 
squeezed  it  into  the  semblance  of  some  living  animal. 
The  man  had  never  studied  from  nature,  except  by 
momentary  observation  of  such  living  creatures  as  hap- 
pened to  come  in  his  way,  and  he  had  not  the  most 
rudimentary  notion  of  the  art  of  drawing;  but  he  had 
such  an  instinctive  perception  of  animal  life  and  action, 
so  sure  a  memory  for  movement,  for  everything  that 
goes  to  the  expression  of  character,  that  his  work  was 


ANIMALS  IN  AR  T.  223 

always  animated  and  delightful.  The  want  of  system- 
atic study  was  evident,  but  not  evident  at  the  first 
glance ;  his  intelligence  and  sympathy  threw  dust  in  the 
eyes  of  criticism,  and  it  was  only  after  the  first  wonder 
had  passed  away  that  one  perceived  the  absence  of 
refinement  in  the  forms  and  the  simple  ignorance  of  art 
His  history  was  briefly  this.  As  a  child  he  had  lived  in 
the  country,  and  been  set  to  watch  pigs ;  so  he  had 
begun,  in  childhood,  to  make  models  of  his  pigs  in  clay, 
since  which  time  modelling  had  been  to  him  a  habit,  and 
his  fingers  were  never  quite  happy  when  doing  anything 
else.  He  had  spent  a  year  or  two  in  Paris,  terribly  over- 
worked at  a  restaurant  on  the  boulevards,  yet  even  there 
he  had  gone  on  making  his  little  waxen  animals.  Some 
famous  artists  had  seen  them  and  had  been  struck  by  the 
surprising  natural  gift  which  made  them  suggest  an 
artistic  education  ;  but  the  lad  preferred,  perhaps  wisely, 
the  modest  certainties  of  his  own  position,  and  remained 
an  amateur,  full  of  inborn  cleverness,  but  devoid  of 
science.  I  gave  him  a  commission  to  the  munificent 
amount  of  thirty  francs,  in  return  for  which  he  sent  me  a 
herd  of  seventeen  animals,  all  of  which  are  remarkable 
artistic  curiosities,  showing  what  the  natural  gift  may 
accomplish  without  the  aids  of  culture. 

Now  this  case  is  interesting  for  the  light  it  throws  on 
the  nature  of  that  instinct  which  is  the  fundamental 
endowment  of  the  animalier.  That  endowment  is  the 
faculty  of  retaining  a  characteristic  movement,  so  instan- 
taneous in  the  living  creature  that  it  can  never  be  studied 


224  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 

from  life.  It  may  be  caught,  it'  cannot  he  studied.  A 
man  who  has  this  gift  of  suddenly  seizing  and  permanently 
retaining  the  movements  which  are  the  most  expressive 
language  of  animals,  holds  the  art  of  animal-painting  or 
animal-sculpture  by  the  middle,  and  the  rest  may  be  got 
by  the  study  of  drawing  and  anatomy  ;  but  without  that 
peculiar  gift,  and  it  is  rare  indeed,  the  most  painstaking 
study  is  not  of  the  least  use.  It  may  even  be  added, 
that  the  finest  artistic  gifts  will  fail  of  their  effect  if  this  be 
wanting.  It  is  certainly,  from  the  purely  artistic  point  of 
view,  a  far  higher  thing  to  be  able  to  colour  beautifully 
and  compose  well  than  to  remember  quite  accurately 
how  a  pig  looks  at  you,  or  how  a  dog  scratches  his  way 
into  a  rat-hole  ;  but  the  colour  of  Titian  and  the  compo- 
sition of  Raphael  would  not  have  made  such  an  animal- 
painter  as  Landseer.  The  most  scientific  draughtsmen 
in  Europe  could  not,  with  all  their  science,  teach  the 
most  docile  pupil  how  to  draw  such  a  thing  as  that  hare 
by  Bracquemond  in  the  '  PORTFOLIO,'  and  you  may  be 
a  member  of  the  Royal  Academy  or  a  Grand  Prix  de 
Rome  without  being  able  to  sketch  a  cat  or  a  squirrel. 

This  is  one  of  those  truths  about  art  which  the  outside 
public  feels  more  than  artists  and  critics.  Suppose  the 
case  of  an  admirable  painter,  able  to  draw  well,  and 
colour  well,  and  compose  well,  but  without  any  special 
faculty  for  retaining  the  expression  of  animals — suppose 
that  this  painter  sent  animal  pictures  to  the  exhibitions, 
is  it  not  certain  that  they  would  be  received  with  cold- 
ness in  comparison  to  works  having  the  qualities  of 


ANIMALS  IN  ART.  225 


Landseer,  and  his  deficiencies?  Every  one  who  knows 
enough  about  art  to  be  able  to  distinguish  between  the 
sources  of  his  satisfaction,  is  aware  that  although  Land- 
seer  most  deservedly  holds  splendid  and  even  supreme 
rank  as  an  animalier,  and  although  his  painting  is  a 
technical  wonder,  he  is  not  either  a  colourist  or  a  com- 
poser, and  that  considered  simply  as  painting,  notwith- 
standing the  technical  and  manual  marvellousness  just 
alluded  to,  his  art  is  not  of  a  high  order,  does  not  even 
take  rank  with  the  better  sort  of  serious  contemporary 
work.  Most  of  us  are  fully  aware  of  all  this,  and  yet 
who  begrudges  Sir  Edwin  his  splendid  rewards  in  wealth 
and  honour,  the  popular 'applause,  the  royal  favour?  Do 
we  not  all  feel  that  the  divine  gift  which  is  in  him,  the 
gift  of  placing  on  canvas  the  life  of  an  animal,  not  its 
body  merely  as  others  do,  but  its  feelings  and  its 
thoughts,  and  that  with  a  vividness  unrivalled  by  mortal 
hand — do  we  not  feel  that  this  gift  is  to  an  animal- 
painter  the  first  and  most  essential  of  his  talents,  and 
that  if  outside  of  it  the  artist  is  simply  respectable,  we 
need  ask  from  him  no  more  ? 

It  is  often  believed  that  animal  design  is  easier  than 
the  human  figure,  and  it  is  true,  no  doubt,  that  the 
animalier  h^s  a  certain  latitude  which  resembles  in  kind, 
but  not  in  degree,  the  latitude  of  the  landscape-painter. 
If  you  are  painting  a  sheep,  for  instance,  you  need  not 
be  particular  about  individuality,  because  people  in  gen- 
eral observe  sheep  so  little  that  they  would  not  appre- 
ciate portraiture ;  if  your  sheep  have  the  right  sheepish 

DD 


226  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 

look,  and  a  shape  and  texture  that  will  pass  the  ordeal 
of  a  criticism  based  on  general  observation  only,  you  are 
as  safe  as  the  landscape-painter  when  he  takes  liberties 
with  clouds  and  trees.  But  these  comparisons,  as  to 
facility,  between  one  branch  of  art  and  another,  have 
always,  or  nearly  always,  some  element  of  fallacy,  due 
to  the  omission  of  some  impediment.  In  this  matter  of 
animal-painting,  people  forget  that  although  the  lower 
animals  may  be  easier  to  paint,  in  some  respects,  than 
men  and  women,  they  cannot  be  studied  so  conven- 
iently. No  branch  of  art,  except  what  is  called  still- 
life,  is  so  convenient  to  the  student  as  the  human  figure. 
Every  one  who  has  drawn  from  a  well-trained  profes- 
sional model  knows  the  incalculable  advantage  of  being 
able  to  correct  his  attitude  by  a  word,  without  moving 
from  one's  place ;  every  one  who  has  drawn  from  ani- 
mals has  felt  how  grievous  it  is  not  to  be  able  to  influ- 
ence their  movements  any  more  than  if  they  were  clouds 
or  waves.  There  are  differences,  no  doubt :  an  ox  is  not 
so  lively  as  a  dog  just  emerging  from  puppyhood ;  but 
the  most  staid  and  sober  animals  are  the  most  decep- 
tive. A  pair  of  oxen  are  standing  yoked  to  the  great 
waggon  in  the  farm-yard  ;  the  goad  is  leaning  against 
the  horn  of  one  of  them,  and  to  any  ordinary  observer 
both  the  patient  creatures  seem  as  still  as  oxen  of 
bronze.  Now  plant  yourself  before  them  with  drawing 
materials  and  make  a  careful  study;  you  will  shortly 
discover  that  this  apparent  stillness  conceals  in  reality 
an  imperceptibly  slow  motion.  It  is  the  stillness  of  the 


ANIMALS  IN  AR  T.  227 

hand  on  your  watch,  of  the  shadow  on  the  sun-dial,  with 
the  difference  (not  in  your  favour)  that  whereas  you 
know  in  what  direction  the  hand  and  the  shadow  are 
going,  and  can  make  allowances  accordingly,  you  cannot 
foresee  the  changes  which  the  next  few  minutes  will 
bring  about  in  the  outlines  of  a  group  of  oxen.  All 
waking  life  is  naturally  accompanied  by  continual  mo- 
tion, unless  in  the  case  of  certain  reptiles,  such  as  the 
crocodile,  whose  death-like  immobility  might  tempt  a 
painter  as  much  as  its  hideousness  would  repel  him. 
The  human  model,  by  long  practice,  and  an  incessant 
effort  of  the  will,  endures  one  after  another  the  thousand 
little  uneasinesses  which  the  mere  processes  of  living 
inflict  upon  us  ;  but  an  animal  seeks  relief  from  them  in 
motion.  The  unhappy  prisoners  in  menageries  expend 
their  irritability  in  movements  as  unceasing  as  they  are 
monotonous.  Even  the  painter's  model,  the  dog  tied  on 
a  little  platform  in  the  studio,  feels  the  irksomeness  of 
restraint,  and  has  frequently  to  be  held  in  position  by 
an  attendant.  Some  painters  employ  two  attendants 
when  they  study  animals  from  nature ;  one  to  hold  the 
model,  the  other  to  occupy  its  attention.  Is  it  not  evi- 
dent that  there  must  always  be  a  wide  difference,  in 
point  of  instructiveness,  between  study  of  this  kind,  so 
broken  and  interrupted,  so  trying  to  the  patience,  and 
quiet  work  from  the  living  human  model,  who  preserves 
his  attitude  whilst  the  student  requires  him,  and  accu- 
rately resumes  it  after  every  interval  of  rest  ?  Surely 
in  estimating  the  differences  of  facility  in  various  depart- 


228  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 

ments  of  the  fine  arts  we  ought  to  take  into  account 
the  opportunities  for  convenient  study.  And  it  may  be 
observed,  farther,  that  although  animal  form  is  partially 
concealed  by  fur,  the  concealment  is  much  less  complete 
than  that  of  the  human  form  by  drapery.  The  truth  is, 
that  in  this  respect  animal-painting  lies  half-way  between 
that  of  the  draped  and  that  of  the  naked  figure.  It  re- 
quires a  far  closer  study  of  organization  to  paint  the  leg 
even  of  a  thickly-furred  animal  than  to  paint  a  man's  leg 
in  a  loose  trowser — in  the  latter  case  it  is  enough  to  get 
the  true  creases  of  the  cloth,  and  I  know  by  careful  com- 
parison of  work  actually  done  (for  this  is  a  subject  which 
greatly  exercised  my  curiosity  at  one  time)  that  it  is  not 
the  best  draughtsman  of  the  nude  who  will  give  the  creases 
best.  Creases  in  cloth  are  a  separate  study,  pushed  very 
far,  too  far,  at  the  present  day,  by  the  draughtsmen  for 
our  illustrated  newspapers. 

The  most  popular  animal-painters  pay  close  atten- 
tion to  the  imitation  of  texture.  This  is  not  wrong  in 
itself,  but  it  is  a  sure  sign  of  degradation  in  any  art 
when  time  and  care  are  bestowed  upon  the  study  of 
surface  to  the  neglect  of  structure.  But  this  is  a  matter 
which  does  not  strictly  belong  to  any  branch  of  art 
except  as  a  consequence  of  general  conditions  of  feeling. 
The  public  mind  of  Europe,  though  greatly  interested  in 
pictures,  or  amused  by  them,  was  during  the  first  twenty 
years  of  the  art-revival  that  we  have  witnessed,  and  is 
still  for  the  most  part,  sincerely  indifferent  to  masterly 
ordonnance  in  construction,  yet  easily  pleased  by  surface 


ANIMALS  IN  ART.  229 

attraction  and  ornament  This  spirit  affected  the  cur- 
rent criticism  of  all  the  arts,  but  especially  the  criticism 
of  poetry. 

In  1853,  Mr.  Matthew  Arnold  wrote  (in  the  Preface 
to  the  first  edition  of  his  Poems), — 'We  can  hardly  at 
the  present  day  understand  what  Menander  meant  when 
he  told  a  man  who  inquired  as  to  the  progress  of  his 
comedy  that  he  had  finished  it,  not  having  yet  written 
a  single  line,  because  he  had  constructed  the  action  of  it 
in  his  mind.  A  modern  critic  would  have  assured  him 
that  the  merit  of  his  piece  depended  on  the  brilliant 
things  which  arose  under  his  pen  as  he  went  along. 
....  We  have  critics  who  seem  to  direct  their  atten- 
tion merely  to  detached  expressions,  to  the  language 
about  the  action,  not  to  the  action  itself.  They  \\ill 
permit  the  poet  to  select  any  action  he  pleases,  and  to 
suffer  that  action  to  go  as  it  will,  provided  he  gratifies 
them  with  occasional  bursts  of  fine  writing,  and  with  a 
shower  of  isolated  thoughts  and  images.  That  is,  they 
permit  him  to  leave  their  poetical  sense  ungratificd,  pro- 
vided that  he  gratifies  their  rhetorical  sense  and  their 
curiosity.' 

When  this  preference  for  rhetoric  over  grand  poetical 
construction  exercises  itself  in  criticism  of  painting  it 
always  over-estimates  anything  like  cleverness  in  the 
imitation  of  texture.  The  temptation*  to  do  so  is  pecu- 
liarly strong  when  an  animal-painter  is  under  consider- 
ation. Every  animal  that  painters  touch  is  remarkable 
for  some  especial  kind  of  surface-beauty  ;  even  the  pig 


23o  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 

has  a  brilliant  silkiness  when  he  happens  to  be  clean, 
and  no  fashionable  artist  would  paint  him  otherwise. 
The  soft  fur  of  the  thickly-clad  bovines,  the  delicate 
fine  hair  of  the  smooth  ones,  the  shining  coats  of  well- 
groomed  horses,  the  wavy  hair  of  goats,  the  wool  of 
sheep,  the  shadowy  masses  of  mane  in  stallion  and  lion, 
with  the  rich  variety  of  colour  that  they  present,  the 
russets,  and  yellows,  and  tawnies,  and  blacks,  and  deli- 
cate pale  grays,  and  warm  tones  like  vellum,  pleasant 
to  the  eye, — all  these  variously  beautiful  textures  are 
worth  careful  painting,  and  the  very  greatest  artists 
have  enjoyed  them.  The  error  of  our  criticism,  and  of 
our  art  too,  is  not  that  we  enjoy  these  beauties  of  nature, 
which  are  truly  amongst  the  purest  sources  of  pleasure 
the  eye  can  find  for  its  refreshment  ;  our  error  is  to  be 
so  enchanted  with  these  things  as  to  prefer  the  clever 
imitation  of  them  to  noble  pictorial  construction. 

The  right  education  for  an  animal-painter  is  a  severe 
training  in  the  figure,  followed  by  careful  drawing  and 
dissection  of  dead  animals.  All  painters  do  wisely  to 
accept  what  science  can  teach  them  as  an  aid  to  memory 
but  animal-painters  profit  by  this  help  even  more,  pro- 
portionately, than  any  other  artists.  A  landscape- 
painter  may  get  on  without  knowing  the  anatomy  o 
plants,  though  botany  would  be  a  great  help  to  him 
a  figure-painter  may  surmount  a  difficulty  by  reference 
to  the  living  model,  but  without  anatomy  it  would  be 
impossible  to  do  serious  work  in  the  sculpture  or  design 
of  animals.  No  one,  who  has  not  dissected,  can  know  the 


ANIMALS  IN  ART.  231 


marvel  of  their  structure.  Take,  as  an  example,  the 
knee  of  the  horse  (carpus)  ;  it  is  built  up  like  the  wall 
of  a  Highland  hut,  and  when  you  think  what  violent 
shocks  this  little  piece  of  God's  masonry  has  to  undergo, 
and  when  you  see  by  actual  dissection  how  the  stones  of 
it  are  fitted  into  their  places  and  bound  together  to 
keep  them  all  where  they  ought  to  be,  is  it  not  natural 
that  after  these  thoughts  and  observations  you  should 
draw  a  horse's  knee  in  action  with  keener  interest  and 
more  accurate  truth  than  if  you  thoughfof  it  merely  as 
a  rather  awkward  kind  of  hinge  ?  And  so  with  the 
wonderful  pastern  bones,  so  small  and  fine  in  the  nobler 
races,  and  yet  so  strong  and  so  firmly  kept  together  by 
the  thin  tendinous  prolongations  of  the  higher  muscles, 
that  they  can  safely  receive  the  whole  combined  weight 
of  the  horse  and  his  rider  in  descending  at  the  conclu- 
sion of  a  leap  !  Could  any  artist  who  took  a  hearty 
interest  in  this  astonishing  piece  of  construction  ever 
draw  it  in  a  negligent  or  careless  temper  ?  All  the 
great  men  who  have  drawn  animals  have  recognised 
the  importance  of  anatomy.  How  persistently  Leo- 
nardo da  Vinci  worked  at  it  !  He,  of  whom  it  was  said 
especially  that  he  was  stupcndissimo  in  far  cavalli,  ac- 
quired his  power  by  dissecting  and  making  finished 
anatomical  drawings,  and  the  great  equestrian  statue  of 
Francesco  Sforza  was  prepared  for  with  rigorous  self- 
discipline  in  the  accurate  teachings  of  science.  Geri- 
cault,  who  was  one  of  the  soundest  painters  of  horses 
that  ever  lived,  paid  the  same  attention  to  anatomy. 


23 2  CHAPTERS  OPJ  ANIMALS. 


1  Gericault  veut  posseder  son  cheval.  II  le  tourne  et 
retourne  dans  tous  les  sens.  C'est  une  sorte  de  gymnas- 
tique  qu'il  s'impose.  II  1'apprend  dans  ses  moindres 
details.  II  ne  neglige  rien,  ni  son  anatomie,  et  sa  forme 
interieure,  ni  les  jeux  de  la  lumiere  sur  la  robe,  ni  ses 
mouvements,  si  difficiles  a  saisir  et  a  exprimer.'*  When 
Landseer  was  examined  before  the  Royal  Academy 
Commission  in  1863,  the  question  was  put  to  him  whether 
he  thought  the  then  recently-introduced  anatomical 
examination  a  change  in  the  right  direction.  Sir  Edwin's 
answer  was,  'I think  so  :  it  is  a  very  important  branch  of 
education' 

The  two  things,  then,  which  go  to  the  production 
of  the  animalier  are,  first,  the  inborn,  incommunicable 
faculty  of  seizing  instantaneously,  and  long  retaining, 
the  most  transient  gestures  of  animals,  with  a  vividness 
sufficient  for  the  purposes  of  art ;  and,  secondly,  a  scien- 
tific training  in  anatomy  and  drawing  to  reinforce  the 
natural  gift  on  all  points  where  it  may  be  insufficient, 
and  give  an  element  of  accuracy  and  security.  The 
first  of  these  two  possessions  belonged  to  my  obscure 
friend,  whose  humble  talent  may  have  interested  the 
reader  at  the  beginning  of  this  chapter  ;  the  second,  the 
scientific  acquirement,  has  been  attained  by  the  laborious 
perseverance  of  many  who  have  left  no  striking  or  ad- 
mirable performance  from  the  absence  of  the  natural 
gift.  Either  of  the  two  without  the  other  is  practically 
almost  valueless.  A  patient  and  learned  draughtsman 

*  GMcault  :  Etude  btographique  et  critique,  par  Charles  Clement. 


ANIMALS  IN  ART.  233 


may,   no  doubt,  draw  the  body  of  a  horse  so  that  the 
muscles  and  bones  shall  be  in  their  places  in  a  state  of 
perfect  quiescence  ;  but  in   animals  the  momentary  atti- 
titude  is  the  language  ^and  the  life.      The  sculptor  or 
painter  of  animals  has  indeed  one  very  marked  advan- 
tage over  the  painter  of  the  figure — namely,  this,   that 
whereas    the   figure-painter   is    really    exercising   what 
Wordsworth   contemptuously   called   a  dumb   art — that 
is,  an  art  not  capable  of  recording  the  language  of  the 
characters  it  represents,  the  art  of  the  animal-painter  is 
not  dumb  in  this  relative  sense.  A  dog  may  bark,  a  horse 
may  neigh,  but  it  is  not  by  these  sounds  that  they  ex- 
press the  delicate  shades  of  ever-varying  emotion  ;    it  is 
by  a  thousand  varieties  of  gesture  which  few  indeed  of  us 
can   analyse,    but   which    we    easily    understand.     The 
animals  are  actors  in  apantomime,  clever  beyond  all  human 
cleverness.     A  dog  converses  with  his  master  by  means 
of  his  eyes,  and  his  ears,  and  his  tail,  nay  rather  by  every 
muscle  of  his  body.     It  follows  from  this,  that  whereas 
the  figure-painter  delineates  a  creature  which  (especially 
in  modern  times  and  in  polite  society)  expresses  little  by 
the  motions  of  the  muscles  which  the  painter  can  render, 
and  much  by  words  which  he  cannot  render,  the  animal- 
painter  delineates  creatures  whose  best  eloquence  may  be 
clearly  expressed  by  his   own  art.     The   rank  of  animal- 
painting  is  therefore  relatively  higher  than  the  rank  of  the 
creatures  that  it  celebrates.  It  may  be  as  great  an  achieve- 
ment to  paint  the  mind  of  a  dog  thoroughlyand  absolutely 
as  to  paint  the  mind  of  a  man  partially  and  imperfectly. 

EE 


234  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIM4LS. 

It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  add,  that  all  artists  who 
have  delineated  animals  successfully  have  seen  them  with 
the  observing  clearness  of  affection.  Emerson  says  that 
love  is  not  a  hood  but  an  eye-water  ;  it  is  so  especially 
to  artists.  From  what  we  know  of  men  who  have  painted 
animals  well  in  past  times,  it  is  evident  that  they  felt 
towards  them  sentiments  as  far  as  possible  removed  from 
indifference.  It  is  related  of  Da  Vinci,  that  although 
several  times  hard-pinched  for  money  he  never  could 
make  up  his  mind  to  part  with  his  horses,  or  the  servants 
belonging  to  his  stables,  which  he  maintained  at  great 
expense.  Horsemanship  was  Da  Vinci's  great  delight, 
and  he  excelled  in  it  Rubens  also,  who  painted  animals 
grandly,  rode  out  every  day.  * 

Rosa  Bonheur  began  her  career  by  keeping  a  pet  sheep, 
high  up  in  a  Parisian  apartment,  and  in  her  portrait  by 
Dubufe  she  leans  caressingly  on  a  fine  calf  which  she  her- 
self introduced  into  the  picture.  Gericault  had  a  passion 
for  horses  so  strong  that  his  biographer  calls  it  '  une  ve- 
ritable frenesie.'  When  a  fine  team  passed  him  in  harness 
he  would  run  by  their  side  to  watch  them  till  he  was 
breathless  and  covered  with  perspiration.  During  his 
college  vacations  he  sometimes  stayed  with  relations  of 
his  at  Rouen,  and  there  his  great  attraction  was  a  black- 
smith's shop,  where  he  watched  the  horses  from  morning 

•  G6ricault  when  a  young  man  bad  for  his  two  idols  Rubens,  and 
Franconi  the  circus-rider,  and  having  remarked  that  the  legs  of  Rubens 
were  somewhat  bent  outwards  with  riding,  he  set  himself  to  produce  the 
same  effect  on  his  own  by  a  wooden  contrivance  which  he  applied  to  them. 


ANIM4LS  IN  ART.  235 

to  night  without  intermission.  He  was  an  accomplished 
and  most  courageous  rider,  preferring  always  the  most 
spirited  horses.  The  same  affection  for  the  animals  they 
draw  is  visible  in  several  of  our  contemporaries.  Brac- 
quemont  will  sit  for  hours  together  watching  ducks  in  a 
duck-pond  ;  Charles  Jacque,  whose  drawings  of  poultry 
are  not  the  least  remarkable  of  his  works,  is  a  great 
poultry-fancier.  It  seems  needless  to  add  that  Landseer 
loves  dogs,  for  he  who  does  not  must  not  only  be  inca- 
pable of  painting  them,  but  so  utterly  dead  to  all  the  better 
feelings  of  our  nature  as  to  be  unworthy  of  mention  in 
these  pages. 


236 


CHAPTER    XVI. 

CANINE   GUESTS.  * 

HAVING  heard  that  two  very  wonderful  dogs  were 
performing  within  fifty  miles  of  my  house,  I  invited  them 
to  come  and  visit  me.  The  answer  came  by  telegraph, 
not  from  the  dogs  themselves,  but  from  their  owner,  M. 
du  Rouil,  and  on  the  appointed  day  and  hour  I  drove  ofif 
to  meet  them.  They  were  invited  to  dine  and  spend 
the  evening ;  and  as  the  weather  was  very  wet  they 
stayed  all  night  and  breakfasted  the  next  morning,  so 
that  I  had  every  opportunity  of  making  their  acquaintance. 
Madame  du  Rouil  informed  me  that  her  husband  had 
been  for  ten  years  a  teacher  in  a  deaf-and-dumb  institu- 
tion, which  had  given  him  the  idea  of  trying  how  far  a 
similar  method  of  education  might  develope  the  intel- 
ligence of  dogs.  He  had  also  been  a  conjuror,  and  these 

•  There  is  so  much  In  this  paper  which  must  naturally  seem  incredible 
that  I  think  it  necessary  to  assure  the  reader  how  scrupulously  I  have 
endeavoured  to  narrate  the  facts  simply  as  I  saw  them.  On  my  honour, 
the  narrative  is,  it  not  absolutely  true,  at  least  as  true  as  I  can  make  it  by 
a  comparison  of  what  I  observed  myself,  with  the  observations  of  a  dozen 
other  witnesses. 


CAKINE  GUESTS.  237 


two  professions  had  prepared  him  for  the  one  he  at  pres- 
ent exercised.  When  he  began  to  train  his  first  dog  it 
was  not  with  any  idea  of  future  profit,  but  simply  out  of 
curiosity  to  see  the  effects  of  the  sort  of  education  which 
seemed  to  him  best  adapted  for  establishing  a  close  un- 
derstanding between  the  human  and  canine  minds.  Seeing 
that  the  plan  succeeded  he  began  to  take  the  dog  with 
him  to  the  entertainments  he  gave  in  Paris,  and  as  the 
public  were  interested  he  went  on  educating  his  pupil. 
Since  then  he  has  educated  two  other  dogs  on  the  same 
principles,  one  of  whom  has  completed  her  training, 
whilst  the  other  is  an  advanced,  but  not  yet  a  finished, 
student. 

I  had  a  good  opportunity,  at  dinner,  of  observing  the 
master  himself.  There  was  not  the  faintest  trace  of 
anything  like  charlatanism  in  his  manner.  A  very  quiet, 
grave,  serious,  even  sad-looking  old  gentleman,  dressed 
soberly  in  black,  he  talked  about  places  he  had  visited 
and  about  the  political  news  of  the  day.  The  impression 
he  made  upon  us  was  altogether  favourable.  He  reminded 
me  most  of  some  respectable  old  school-master  or  libra- 
rian, who  had  seen  a  good  deal  of  the  world  and  reflected 
on  what  he  had  seen,  but  whose  thoughts  were  tinged 
with  a  deepening  gravity,  the  result  of  narrowed  fortune 
and  weakened  health.  I  learned  afterwards  that  there 
were  ample  reasons  for  this  sadness.  M.  du  Rouil  had 
had  two  sons  killed  in  the  war  and  another  severely 
wounded,  whilst  his  daughter,  a  pretty  girl  of  eighteen, 
had  been  killed  by  a  shell  at  Neuilly  in  the  sanguinary 


23 8  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 

days  of  the  Commune.  His  house,  too,  had  been  sacked 
by  the  Communards,  and  a  small  business  which  his  wife 
managed  had  been  put  an  end  to.  The  capital  invested 
in  that  little  business  had  been  earned  by  the  dog  Bianca, 
of  whom,  and  her  daughter  Lyda,  it  is  time  to  give  a 
description. 

Bianca,  or  Blanche,  as  her  master  familiarly  calls  her, 
is  a  bitch  of  the  pure  canicJie  breed.  I  use  the  French 
word  because  although  we  have  an  English  one,  '  poodle,' 
I  rather  think  that  the  word  poodle  does  not  distinguish 
between  the  real  canicJie  and  the  cliien-mouton,  another 
very  intelligent  breed  from  which  performing  dogs  are 
frequently  taken.  Of  M.  du  Rouil's  three  pupils  one  is 
a  pure  canic/ie,  the  other  (Lyda)  is  a  cross  between 
the  caniche,  and  the  spaniel,  whilst  the  third  is  a  chien- 
moutou,  thoroughbred.  The  caniche  is  silky-haired  and 
has  often  patches  of  brown  about  the  face,  but  the  white 
hair  is  like  snow,  whereas  the  chicn-monton  approaches 
both  in  colour  and  texture  much  more  nearly  to  the 
sheep,  and  never  has  any  patches  of  brown.  Only 
Blanche  and  Lyda  came  to  my  house  ;  the  other  dog  has 
begun  to  perform  in  public,  but  is  not  yet  so  accomplished 
as  these  two. 

They  behaved  at  dinner  exactly  like  common  dogs, 
but  when  I  offered  Blanche  a  piece  of  cheese  and  asked 
if  she  knew  the  word  for  that  substance,  her  master 
answered  that  she  could  spell  it  very  correctly.  !  had 
invited  a  few  friends  to  meet  these  learned  animals,  and 
when  they  were  assembled  in  the  drawing-room  we  made 


CANINE  GUESTS.  239 

the  little  preparations  which  M.  du  Rouil  said  would  be 
most  convenient.  A  large  octagonal  library-table  was 
put  in  the  middle  of  the  room  with  a  cloth  of  one  colour 
and  a  lamp  in  the  centre.  Round  this  table  Madame  du 
Rouil  laid  cards  with  all  the  letters  of  the  alphabet, 
printed  in  large  capitals.  There  was  also  a  little  hand- 
bell. At  a  sign  from  her  master  Blanche  jumped  upon 
the  table  and  sat  in  an  attitude  of  expectation.  Then 
M.  du  Rouil  turned  to  me  and  said,  '  I  promised  you 
that  the  dog  should  spell  fromage.  Blanche,  spell  fro- 
ntage' Blanche  immediately  set  about  her  work  and 
brought  an  F,  an  R,  and  an  O,  then  she  hesitated.  '  You 
have  only  given  us  three  letters,  and  there  are  seven  in 
the  word.'  On  this,  she  soon  found  M,  A,  G,  E,  and 
the  word  was  complete.  The  next  task  was  a  trans- 
lation. We  were  invited  to  write  upon  a  slate  any  Latin, 
German,  or  English  word  in  which  the  same  letter  did 
not  occur  twice.  Some  one  present  wrote,  in  German 
hand-writing,  the  word  $fcrt,  and  M.  du  Rouil  showed 
the  slate  to  Blanche.  She  either  read  it  or  pretended  to 
read  it,  and  made  a  sign  that  she  understood  by  putting 
the  slate  down  with  her  paw.  '  Now  give  us  the  French 
for  that  word ; '  she  immediately  brought  C,  and  then 
H,  E,  V,  A,  L.  '  As  you  are  spending  the  evening  at 
an  Englishman's  h,ouse,  Blanche,  would  you  oblige  him 
by  translating  that  word  into  English  ?'  Without  hesita- 
tion the  dog  gave  me  an  H,  and  with  very  little  hesita- 
tion the  remaining  letters,  O,  R,  S,  E. 

Notwithstanding  her  success,  the  dog  seemed    to  set 


240  CHAPTERS  ON  4NIM4LS. 

about  her  work  very  unwillingly,  and  it  was  evidently  a 
great  effort  to  her.  The  authority  of  the  master,  though 
very  gently  exercised,  appeared  to  be  irresistible,  ex- 
actly Hke  that  of  a  mesmerist  over  his  patient.  Blanche 
complained  audibly  the  whole  time  with  a  sound  between 
growling  and  whining,  and  occasionally  a  short  bark  of 
uneasiness.  Observing  this,  I  said  that  for  the  present 
that  part  of  the  performance  might  be  considered  satis- 
factory, and  we  would  pass  on  to  something  else.  M. 
du  Rouil  then  told  us  that  Blanche  could  correct  bad 
spelling,  and  invited  me  to  write  a  word  on  the  slate 
with  an  intentional  fault  in  it.  He  showed  the  slate 
to  the  dog,  and  said,  '  There  is  a  fault  here,  Blanche ; 
find  it  out,  and  show  us  first  what  letter  ought  to  be 
effaced.'  The  word  I  had  written  was  maison,  but  I  had 
spelt  it  meson.  The  dog  immediately  brought  the  letter 
E.  Then  M.  du  Rouil  requested  Blanche  to  show  us 
what  letters  ought  to  be  substituted,  and  she  fetched  an 
A  and  an  I. 

As  Blanche  seemed  tired  and  worried  with  this  kind 
of  work  I  intervened  on  her  behalf,  and  she  was  allowed 
to  go  and  curl  herself  up  in  a  corner,  and  eat  cakes. 
Lyda  took  her  place  on  the  table,  and  a  set  of  figures 
were  substituted  for  the  alphabet.  Some  arithmetical 
problems  were  written  on  the  state  and  she  resolved  them 
(or  appeared  to  resolve  them)  without  a  single  mistake. 
A  very  pretty  incident  occurred  at  this  period  of  the 
performance,  for  the  master  proposed  a  little  mental 
arithmetic.  '  Now,  Lyda,'  he  said,  '  I  want  to  see 


CANINE  GUESTS.  241 

whether  you  understand  division.  Suppose  you  had  ten 
pieces  of  sugar,  and  you  met  ten  Prussian  dogs,  how 
many  lumps  would  you,  une  Francaise,  give  to  each  of 
the  Prussians  ? '  Lyda  very  decidedly  replied  to  this  with 
a  cipher.  '  But  now  suppose  that  you  divided  your 
lumps  of  sugar  with  me,  how  many  would  you  give  me  ? ' 
Lyda  took  up  the  figure  5,  and  presented  it  to  her 
master. 

This  was  pretty  enough,  but  for  reasons  of  my  own  I 
was  much  more  interested  in  something  that  happened 
immediately  afterwards.  M.  du  Rouil  quitted  the  room, 
the  door  was  closed  after  him,  and  he  called  out,  '  Which 
is  the  least  valuable  figure  ? '  Lyda  brought  me  the 
cipher.  Then  her  master  said,  '  Which  Is  the  most 
valuable  figure  ? '  the  dog  brought  me  the  9.  After  this 
I  asked  for  different  figures,  which  the  dog  gave  me 
without  a  single  mistake. 

It  was  Blanche's  turn  next,  but  this  time  instead  of 
being  surrounded  with  the  letters  of  the  alphabet  she 
v/as  surrounded  with  playing-cards.  M.  du  Rouil  had 
another  pack  in  his  hand,  and  told  us  to  choose  a  card. 
'  Blanche,  what  card  has  been  chosen  ?  '  The  dog  always 
took  up  the  right  card  in  her  teeth.  Then  she  played  a 
game  with  a  young  lady,  and  lost  it,  after  which  she 
rushed  from  her  seat  into  the  corner  with  an  air  of  the 
deepest  humiliation. 

A  very  surprising  thing  followed  the  game  at  cards. 
M.  du  Rouil  begged  me  to  go  into  another  room  and 
leave  a  light  on  the  floor  with  a  pack  of  cards  arranged 

FF 


CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 


all  round  it  and  to  close  the  doors  as  nearly  as  possible 
without  shutting  them.  This  being  done,  he  begged  any 
one  present  to  whisper  in  the  dog's  ear  the  name  of  a 
card  to  be  fetched  by  her  from  the  other  room.  A  lady 
whispered  the  '  knave  of  hearts/  if  I  remember  rightly, 
but  in  so  low  a  voice  as  to  be  inaudible  even  by  the  dog, 
which  made  a  mistake,  and  brought  something  else.  She 
was  then  requested  to  bring  the  ace  of  spades,  and  she 
soon  came  back  from  the  dining-room  with  the  ace  of 
spades  in  her  teeth. 

Both  the  dogs  played  a  game  at  dominoes.  This 
was  managed  as  follows  :  the  dogs  sat  on  chairs  oppo- 
site each  other,  and  took  up  the  domino  that  was 
wanted  ;  but  the  master  or  mistress  placed  it,  and  kept 
announcing  the  state  of  the  game.  Their  distress  when 
they  could  not  go  on  without  drawing  upon  the  bank 
was  expressed  in  piteous  whines,  and  amused  us  all  im- 
mensely. Lyda  was  the  loser,  and  she  precipitately 
retreated  to  hide  herself,  with  an  evident  consciousness 
of  defeat. 

I  had  not  quite  done  with  my  literary  examination  of 
Bianca,  so  I  had  the  alphabet  replaced  and  began  again. 
I  asked  her  what  was  the  English  for  c/iien,  and  she  put 
the  letters  D,  O,  G,  into  my  own  hand.  Then  I  asked 
her  to  spell  feu  for  me,  and  she  gave  me  the  three  letters 
F,  E,  U.  Here  an  incident  occurred  which,  notwith- 
standing the  marvels  we  had  witnessed,  thrilled  us  all 
with  new  amazement.  M.  du  Rouil  interposed,  and  said, 
very  gently,  '  Blanche,  you  have  spelt  the  word  correctly 


CANINE  GUESTS.  243 

in  the  singular,  but  cannot  you  give  the  plural  ? '  My 
readers  may  believe  me  or  not,  as  they  like,  but  the 
truth  is,  that  she  took  up  the  letter  X  between  her  teeth 
and  came  to  me  and  placed  it  in  my  hand.  I  asked  her  to 
give  me  the  English  for  feu,  and  wrote  it  down  and 
handed  it  to  M.  du  Rouil,  but  he  said  she  had  not  yet 
learned  that  word,  and  this  defect  in  her  education  could 
not  be  remedied  at  once. 

During  the  whole  of  this  entertainment  my  mind  was 
intently  occupied  with  a  single  problem,  What  did  the 
dogs  really  know  ?  I  had  been  told  a  few  days  previous- 
ly, by  a  gentleman  who  had  very  keen  powers  of  obser- 
vation, that  a  system  of  signals  existed  between  M.  du 
Rouil  and  his  dogs,  by  which  he  made  them  understand 
which  card  they  ought  to  take,  and  this  gentleman 
believed  that  he  had  detected  the  most  important  signal 
of  all.  'When  M.  du  Rouil  means  no  he  advances 
towards  the  table,  and  when  he  means  yes  he  retires  from 
it.'  Another  observer,  younger  and  much  less  intelligent, 
had  told  me  that  M.  du  Rouil,  having  been  a  teacher  of 
the  deaf  and  dumb,  simply  used  signs  with  his  ringers, 
which  the  dogs  had  learned  to  read.  These  two  theories 
may  be  disposed  of  very  summarily.  When  the  entertain- 
ment began  with  the  literary  examination  of  Bianca,  M. 
du  Rouil  stcod  on  the  hearth-rug,  with  his  back  to  the  fire, 
and  did  not  advance  or  retreat  one  inch ;  whilst  at  the 
conclusion,  when  she  gave  the  plural  to  the  word  feu,  I 
myself  occupied  M.  du  Rouil's  place,  and  he  was  seated 
in  an  arm-chair,  like  the  other  spectators,  and  with  his 


244 


CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 


back  to  the  table.  It  is  clear,  therefore,  that  the  theory 
about  advancing  and  retreating  is  not  an  explanation. 
Now,  as  for  the  other  theory,  that  he  communicates  with 
the  dogs  by  means  of  manual  signs,  like  those  used  v:ith 
the  deaf  and  dumb,  I  need  only  observe  that  M.  du 
Rottil's  hands  were  as  motionless  as  his.  feet  When  we 
began  with  frontage,  pferd,  &c.,  he  held  a  tray  in  his 
right  hand,  the  arm  being  pendent  by  his  side,  whilst  the 
left  hand  was  behind  his  back,  the  fingers  closed,  and  as 
motionless  as  those  of  a  bronze  Napoleon  on  a  chimney- 
piece.  He  did  not  even  reserve  to  himself  such  liberty 
of  motion  as  might  have  been  secured  by  taking  the 
letters  from  the  dog,  for  when  I  proposed  to  take  the 
letters  myself  he  made  no  objection  whatever,  but  sat 
down  quietly  and  let  me  do  the  showman's  work.  It  is 
certain  that  the  communication  was  not  made  by  any 
motion  of  the  body ;  this,  at  least.  I  can  affirm  quite 
positively.  Was  it  done  by  the  expression  of  the  eyes  ? 
At  first  we  thought  that  this  might  be  just  possible  ;  but 
the  table  was  octagonal,  and  the  dog  found  the  letters 
when  her  back  was  turned  to  her  master  as  easily  as 
when  she  could  look  him  in  the  face  ;  besides,  when  M.  du 
Rouil  was  seated,  and  I  was  the  showman,  he  did  not 
look  towards  the  dog  at  all,  but  at  the  fire.  Whatever 
communication  did  take  place  must  have  been  entirely 
by  intonations  of  the  voice,  but  we  could  hear  these  as 
well  as  the  dogs  could,  and  with  all  our  listening  we  could 
detect  nothing  like  a  regularly  recurring  and  easily  re- 
cognisable signal.  When  he  asked  Blanche  to  turn  feu 


CANINE  GUESTS.  245 


into  the  plural,  he  did  it  exactly  with  the  words  and  in 
the  manner  that  you  would  use  to  a  child  at  school.  He 
often  encouraged  the  dogs  with  such  words  as  Allans, 
aliens  !  Cherchez,  cJiercJicz  bicn  !  Vite,  vite,  vite  !  but  he 
went  on  with  these  encouragements  exactly  in  the  same 
words  and  in  the  same  tone  after  the  word  was  completed 
to  put  the  dog's  knowledge  to  the  test,  and  she  went  on 
seeking,  and  then  whined  and  rang  a  bell  to  say  that 
there  were  no  more  letters  needed.  I  had  been  told  that 
Blanche  could,  of  course,  spell  any  word  that  her  master 
could  spell,  because  she  only  took  the  letters  he  fixed 
upon,  yet  he  said  she  could  not  spell  fire  for  me.  This, 
however,  may  have  been  a  ruse  on  his  part,  and  I  do  not 
insist  upon  it. 

If  the  dogs  had  appeared  to  know  rather  less  we  should 
have  believed  that  the  knowledge  was  really  theirs,  but 
then  they  seemed  to  know  too  much.  Lyda  showed  us  some 
tricks  with  numbers,  that  are  familiar  to  arithmeticians, 
but  clearly  beyond  the  canine  comprehension.  This 
satisfied  me  that  some  communication  existed,  and  yet  I 
was  utterly  unable  to  detect  it.  It  is  clear,  therefore, 
that  the  dogs  understood  and  acted  upon  a  system  of 
signalling  which  the  intelligence  of  the  human  spectators 
was  not  keen  enough  to  discover.  I  had  invited  several 
intelligent  friends,  and  told  them  previously  that  my 
object  was  to  discover  the  secret  of  the  confederacy 
between  M.  du  Rouil  and  his  dogs,  begging  their  best 
assistance.  They  watched  him  as  closely  as  I  did,  but 
could  detect  nothing. 


246  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 

Remembering  an  odd  notion  of  Sydney  Smith's,  that 
people  might  be  taught  to  read  by  odours,  the  idea  oc- 
curred to  me  that  M.  du  Rouil  might  contrive  to  touch 
the  cards  that  the  dogs  selected,  and  curiously  enough 
they  certainly  smelt  them  rather  than  looked  at  them. 
But  how  could  such  a  supposition  be  reconcilable  with 
the  fact  that  M.  du  Rouil  kept  at  a  distance  from  the 
table,  and  could  not  possibly  foresee  the  words  that  we 
asked  for  ?  I  only  mention  this  hypothesis  of  reading  by 
odour  to  show  to  what  straits  we  were  reduced  in  our 
guessing. 

As  the  dogs  and  their  owner  were  to  stay  all  night  at 
my  house,  I  determined  to  have  a  quiet  talk  with  him 
when  everybody  else  was  gone,  and  get  at  the  secret  if 
I  could.  So  when  we  were  quite  alone  together  I  plied 
him  with  indiscreet  questions,  and  he  was  frank  enough 
up  to  a  certain  point,  but  beyond  that  point  absolutely 
impenetrable. 

He  confessed  at  once  that  there  was  a  secret,  but  he 
said,  '  La  ficelle  est  bien  cachee*  as  indeed  it  was.  Ac- 
cording to  his  account,  which  was  probably  quite  true  as 
far  as  it  went,  the  dogs  were  like  actors,  who  had  not 
quite  thoroughly  mastered  their  parts,  and  he  himself 
was  like  the  prompter  near  the  footlights.  To  begin  with, 
Blanche  really  knew  the  letters  of  the  alphabet  and  the 
playing-cards  by  their  names,  and  Lyda  really  knew  all 
the  figures.  In  addition  to  this,  he  said  that  Blanche  had 
studied  about  a  hundred  and  fifty  words  in  different  lan- 
guages, something  like  twenty  in  each  language,  words 


C4NINE  GUESTS.  247 

most  likely  to  be  called  for,  such  as  cliien,  dog,  horse,  cat, 
pferd,  canis,  &c.,  &c.  The  restriction  to  one  set  of  letters 
simplified  the  business  considerably.  But  M.  du  Rouil 
confessed  quite  frankly  that  she  could  not  get  through  a 
word  unless  he  were  present.  On  the  othe/  hand,  he 
could  not  make  her  spell  a  word  in  public  that  she  had 
not  before  practised  with  him  in  private.  So  it  was  with 
Lyda  and  the  figures.  She  really  knew  the  figures  when 
isolated,  and  this  had  been  satisfactorily  demonstrated 
when  he  left  the  room,  and  she  gave  me  the  number 
asked  for,  up  to  9.  But  he  would  not  tell  me  the  secret 
of  the  confederacy.  I  told  him  what  guesses  had  been 
made  on  the  subject,  but  he  simply  answered  that  I  must 
have  observed  how  impossible  it  was  for  him  to  make 
signs  with  hands  or  feet  when  he  moved  neither  hand  nor 
foot. 

Would  he  give  me  some  account  of  the  earlier  stages 
of  training  through  which  these  dogs  had  passed  ?  Yes, 
very  willingly.  The  first  thing  was  to  teach  a  dog  to 
fetch  an  object,  the  next  to  make  him  discriminate  be- 
tween one  of  two  very  different  objects  placed  together, 
and  bring  one  or  the  other  as  it  was  mentioned  by  its 
name.  In  beginning  the  alphabet  he  put  two  most 
dissimilar  letters  side  by  side  to  begin  with,  such  as  an  O 
and  an  I,  avoiding  the  confusion  of  similar  ones,  such  as 
O  and  Q,  or  B  and  R.  Gradually,  the  dog  became  ob- 
servant enough  to  discriminate  between  letters  in  which 
the  difference  was  not  so  marked.  M.  du  Rouil  told  me 
that  he  had  found  the  greatest  difficulty  in  teaching 


248  CHAPTERS  ON  4NIM4LS. 

Blanche  to  distinguish  between  the  knaves  and  kings  in 
playing-cards,  but  that  she  learned  the  aces  very  promptly. 
With  regard  to  the  time  required  for  educating  a  dog 
sufficiently  to  perform  in  public,  he  said  that  an  hour  a 
day  for  eighteen  months  was  the  time  required,  and  he 
preferred  a  single  hour  to  a  longer  lesson,  because  the 
dog's  powers  of  attention  were  soon  fatigued.  He  added, 
that  it  was  impossible  to  educate  a  dog  at  any  other 
time  than  the  middle  of  the  night,  because  the  slightest 
sound  disturbed  it,  and  made  it  forget  the  work  that 
had  to  be  done.  I  inquired  what,  after  his  ten  years' 
experience,  was  his  opinion  of  the  intelligence  of 
dogs,  and  he  answered,  with  great  emphasis,  '  that  it  is 
infinite.' 

Beyond  this  he  would  tell  nothing.  The  only  sup- 
position not  immediately  annihilated  by  the  facts,  is  that 
the  tone  of  voice  used  in  uttering  the  words  '  Allans, 
allons  ;  Cherchez,  cherchez  bieil ;  Cherchez  encore  ;  Vite, 
vite,  vite?  conveyed  to  the  animal,  '  You  are  far  from  the 
card/  '  You  are  nearer  the  card,'  '  That  is  the  card  you 
must  take  up  ;  '  but  even  here  there  were  great  difficulties, 
for  M.  du  Rouil  continued,  as  far  as  we  could  detect,  in 
the  same  tone  after  the  completion  of  the  word,  and  yet 
the  dog  never  brought  a  superfluous  letter.  The  mar- 
vellousness  of  so  perfect  a  confederacy  may  be  better 
understood  by  supposing  a  human  confederate  in  the 
dog's  place.  Such  a  human  confederate,  not  knowing 
the  words  to  be  composed,  would  be  very  liable  to  make 
mistakes,  and  bring  a  wrong  letter  from  time  to  time; 


CANINE  GUESTS.  249 


but  Blanche  never  made  one  mistake — never  brought  one 
wrong  letter. 

I  certainly  observed  that  when  she  got  near  the  letter 
she  always  hesitated  between  it  and  its  neighbours  on 
each  side,  but  she  always  finally  took  the  letter  that  was 
wanted.  She  got  on  much  faster  with  one  or  two  words 
than  she  did  with  the  others,  and  seemed  to  need  less 
encouragement.  My  conclusion  was,  that  from  long 
practice  with  certain  familiar  words  (she  had  worked  at 
the  business  daily  for  several  years)  she  could  compose 
those  words  with  very  little  help.  The  last  word,  feu, 
and  the  X  to  make  a  plural  of  it,  were  given  quickly, 
others  not  so  quickly.  The  use  of  the  X  was  clever,  but 
not  so  surprising  as  it  seemed  to  us  at  the  moment,  for 
with  a  dog  so  well  trained  as  Blanche  it  would  be  easy, 
I  should  imagine,  to  associate  the  word  '  plural '  with  the 
image  of  the  letter  X.  Very  probably  Blanche  had  been 
taught,  in  her  private  lessons,  to  fetch  that  letter  when- 
ever ' plurier  was  asked  for.  As  for  the  translation, 
without  going  so  far  in  credulity  as  to  fancy  that  the  dog 
really  translated,  I  may  suggest  that  from  long  practice 
there  would  certainly  arise  in  her  mind  an  association  of 
ideas  between  cheval  and  horse,  cliien  and  dog,  since  the 
words  must  have  been  asked  for  hundreds  or  thousands 
of  times  in  that  close  connection,  so  that  she  would  at 
least  be  better  prepared  to  spell  dog,  after  having  just  spelt 
cliien. 

An  incident  occurred  in  the  course  of  the  evening 
which  showed  some  understanding  of  language.  A  little 

GG 


250  CHAPTERS  ON  4NIMALS. 

girl  wanted  Blanche  to  come  to  her,  but  the  dog  kept 
away,  on  which  Madame  du  Rouil  said,  '  Blanche,  allez 
saluer  la  petite  demoiselle.'  She  immediately  went  up 
to  the  little  girl  and  made  a  formal  obeisance.  A  lady 
present,  the  daughter  of  a  landowner  in  the  Sologne,  told 
us  that  on  her  father's  estate  the  shepherds'  dogs  were 
taught  to  go  in  four  directions  at  the  word  of  command 
— a  droite,  a  gauche,  en  avant,  and  en  arriere. 

The  conclusion  we  arrived  at  was,  that  the  perform- 
ance resulted  from  an  extremely  clever  combination  of 
previous  training  with  scarcely  perceptible  prompting, 
that  the  dogs  were  really  wonderfully  educated  and  knew 
a  great  deal,  though  not  so  much  as  they  appeared  to 
know.  The  game  at  dominoes  was  decidedly  the  prettiest 
instance  of  their  real  knowledge,  for  they  took  up  the 
numbers  just  as  they  were  asked  for.  It  seems  evident 
that  an  intelligent  dog  might  be  taught  to  know  a  con- 
siderable variety  of  objects  by  their  names. 

M.  du  Rouil  told  us  an  anecdote  of  Blanche  which 
may  be  easily  believed  by  any  one  who  has  made  her 
acquaintance.  He  was  going  home  one  night  from 
Paris  to  Neuilly,  after  a  performance,  and  saw  a  man 
who  was  seeking  for  some  object  that  he  had  lost. 
'  What  are  you  seeking  ?  '  he  asked.  The  man  answered 
that  he  had  lost  280  francs.  '  Possibly  my  dog  may 
'  be  able  to  find  them  for  you  ;  have  you  any  money 
left  ?  If  you  have,  show  her  a  piece  of  gold.  Allez, 
cherchez,  Blanche  ! '  The  dog  set  out  and  fetched  first 
one  piece  of  gold  and  then  another  and  then  a  bank- 


CANINE  GUESTS.  251 


note  till  the  280  francs  were  completed.  Then  followed 
many  other  anecdotes  about  dogs  of  which  I  select  these. 
A  lady  said  that  she  had  known  a  dog  that  belonged  to 
a  celebrated  publisher  in  Paris  who  had  a  country-house 
at  Auteuil.  Every  Friday  his  family  went  to  Auteuil, 
and  always  regularly  found  the  dog  there  on  their  arrival. 
He  went  alone,  t"i rough  Paris,  from  the  Rue  de  VAn- 
cicnne  Comedie,  and  he  never  made  a  mistake  about  the 
day.  The  family  frequently  went  out  on  other  days,  but 
on  these  occasions  the  dog  stayed  contentedly  at  home. 
Another  dog  that  she  had  also  known  had  been  bred  in 
a  strictly  Catholic  family,  and  would  never  touch  meat 
on  a  Friday.  Bets  were  made,  and  the  greatest  temp- 
tations used  to  overcome  his  conscientious  scruples,  but 
always  in  vain.  He  was  shut  up  in  a  room  during  a 
whole  Friday  with  meat  in  his  reach,  but  preferred  to 
suffer  hunger  rather  than  touch  it.  One  of  my  friends 
mentioned  a  dog  that  he  knew  quite  well  which  lost  its 
master  three  years  ago  from  small-pox,  and  ever  since 
then,  in  all  weathers,  has  paid  a  daily  visit  to  the 
cemetery,  where  it  mourns  upon  his  grave.  The  widow 
goes  to  the  grave  on  Sundays  after  mass,  the  dog 
knows  this,  waits  for  her  at  the  church-door,  and  accom- 
panies her. 

Lyda  has  one  quality  which  would  make  her  invaluable 
to  an  artist.  Every  painter  who  has  attempted  to  draw 
dogs  knows  how  provokingly  restless  they  always  are, 
and  how  impossible  it  is  to  study  them  as  we  do  the 
human  model.  But  "Lyfa  poses  as  perfectly  as  any  human 


252  CHAPTERS  ON  ANIMALS. 

model  at  the  Royal  Academy.  I  made  a  drawing  of  her 
the  morning  after  the  performance  and  was  delighted. 
Literally  not  a  hair  stirred  during  the  whole  time.  She 
had  the  stillness  of  a  stuffed  animal  in  a  museum,  with 
that  perfection  of  living  form  which  no  taxidermist  was 
ever  yet  able  to  imitate  or  preserve.  A  dog  so  perfectly 
trained  as  Lyda  would  be  a  priceless  treasure  for  an 
animal-painter.  Blanche  poses  fairly  well,  but  she  is  not 
to  be  compared  with  i^yda.  I  wish  I  could  give  some 
notion  of  Lyda's  eyes  ;  they  have  the  strangest  half- 
human  expression,  as  if  there  were  half  a  soul  behind 
them.  Her  master  says  that  she  looks  at  him  with  an 
intensity  that  s  quite  painful  when  she  is  trying  with  all 
her  might  to  understand  what  he  wishes  her  to  learn.  I 
declare  that  this  creature's  looks  are  enough  to  frighten 
you  if  you  dwell  u  )on  them,  it  seems  as  if  some  unhappy 
child-soul  had  been  imprisoned  in  that  canine  shape. 
Are  these  poor  dogs  happy  in  their  strange,  unnatural  life  ? 
They  are  tenderly  cared  for,  and  their  master  says  that 
whoever  beats  a  dog  gives  evidence  of  his  own  personal 
stupidity,  for  a  dog  always  tries  his  best  to  understand, 
and  you  can  make  things  clearest  to  him  by  gentle  teach- 
ing if  you  know  how  to  teach  at  all.  And  still  these  dogs 
look  over-wrought,  and  nervously  anxious,  they  have 
just  the  very  look  which  you  may  notice  in  over-worked 
professional  men.  Ah,  poor  humble  canine  brethren, 
specimens  of  mental  culture,  are  we  not  in  the  same 
perilous  trade  ?  And  would  it  not  have  been  better  for 
all  three  01  us  if  instead  of  giving  ourselves  up  to  letters 


C4N1NE  GUESTS.  253 


we   had  passed  a  careless,   sylvan  life  under  the  good 
green  wood  ?  * 

•  M.  du  Roull  died  a  few  days  after  his  visit  to  my  house,  and  his  widow 
immediately  sold  or  gave  away  the  three  dogs ;  a  clear  proof  of  the  truth 
of  her  assertion  that  she  did  not  know  how  her  husband  managed  them, 
or  at  least  that,  if  his  method  were  theoretically  known  to  her  she  was 
unable  to  put  it  into  practice.  Tiie  present  owners  of  these  animals  can 
get  no  performance  out  of  them  whatever.  I  have  now  no  hope  of  ascer- 
taining the  true  secret  of  M.  du  Bonil's  confederacy  with  his  does;  but  the 
mere  fact  that  so  perfect  a  confederacy  should  exist  proves  the  keenest 
intelligence  on  their  part.  .  Whatever  may  have  been  the  signals  used 
they  were  understood  without  error  by  the  dogs,  and  yet  the  human 
observers,  although  using  their  human  faculties  at  the  full  stretch  of 
excited  curiosity,  were  utterly  unable  to  detect  them. 


14     ROBERTS  BROTHERS'  PUBLICATIONS. 
THE 

INTELLECTUAL     LIFE. 

BY   PHILIP   GILBERT   HAMERTON, 

AUTHOR  OF 

"A  Painter's  Camp,"   "Thoughts  About  Art,"  "The  Un- 
known River,"  "  Chapters  on  Animals." 

Square  I2mo,  cloth,  gilt.     Price  $2.00. 

From  Ike  Christian  Union. 

"  In  many  respects  this  is  a  remarkable  book,  —  the  last  and  best  production 
of  a  singularly  well  balanced  and  finely  cultured  mind.  No  man  whose  life  was 
not  lifted  above  the  anxieties  of  a  bread-winning  life  could  have  written  this  work ; 
which  is  steeped  in  that  sweetness  and  light,  the  virtues  of  which  Mr.  Arnold  so 
eloquently  preaches.  Compared  with  Mr.  Hamerton's  former  writings,  'The 

Intellectual    Life '    is  incomparably  his  best   production But   above  all, 

and  specially  as  critics,  are  we  charmed  with  the  large  impartiality  of  the  writer. 
Mr  Hamerton  is  one  of  those  peculiarly  fortunate  men  who  have  the  inclination 
and  means  to  live  an  ideal  life.  From  his  youth  he  has  lived  in  an  atmosphere 
of  culture  and  light,  moving  with  clipped  wings  in  a  charmed  circle  of  thought 
Possessing  a  peculiarly  refined  and  delicate  nature,  a  passionate  love  of  beauty, 
and  purity  and  art  ;  and  having  the  means  to  gratify  his  tastes,  Mr.  Hamerton 
has  held  himself  aloof  from  the  commonplace  routine  of  life  ;  and  by  constant 
study  of  books  and  nature  and  his  fellow  men,  has  so  purified  his  intellect  and 
tempered  his  judgment,  that  he  is  able  to  view  things  from  a  higher  platform  even 
than  more  able  men  whose  natures  have  been  soured,  cramped,  or  influenced  by 
the  necessities  of  a  laborious  existence.  Hence  the  rare  impartiality  of  his  deci- 
sions, the  catholicity  of  his  views,  and  the  sympathy  with  which  he  can  discuss 
the  most  irreconcilable  doctrines.  To  read  Mr.  Hamerton's  writings  is  an  intel- 
lectual luxury.  They  are  not  boisterously  strong,  or  exciting,  or  even  very  forci- 
ble;  but  they  are  instinct  with  the  finest  feeling,  the  broadest  sympathies,  and  a 
philosophic  calm  that  acts  like  an  opiate  on  the  unstrung  nerves  of  the  hard- 
wrought  literary  reader.  Calm,  equable,  and  beautiful,  'The  Intellectual  Life,' 
when  contrasted  with  the  sensational  and  half  digested  clap-trap  that  forms  so 
large  a  portion  of  contemporary  literature,  reminds  one  of  the  old  picture  of  the 
nuns,  moving  about,  calm  and  se'f-possessed,  through  the  fighting  and  blasphem- 
ing crowds  that  thronged  the  beleagured  city." 

"This  book  is  written  with  perfect  singleness  of  purpose  to  help  others 
towards  an  intellectual  life,"  says  the  Boston  Daily  Advertiser. 

"  It  is  eminently  a  book  of  counsel  and  instruction,"  says  the  Boston  Post. 

"  A  book,  which  it  seems  to  us  will  take  a  permanent  place  in  literature, 
says  the  New  York  Daily  Mail. 

Sold  by  all  Booksellers.  Mailed,  postpaid,  by  the  Pub- 
lishers, 

ROBERTS  BROTHERS,  BOSTON. 


